Ten years before, Ferdinand Brandeis had bought a large bill
of Christmas fancy-goods--celluloid toilette sets, leather
collar boxes, velvet glove cases. Among the lot was a
photograph album in the shape of a huge acorn done in
lightning-struck plush. It was a hideous thing, and
expensive. It stood on a brass stand, and its leaves were
edged in gilt, and its color was a nauseous green and blue,
and it was altogether the sort of thing to grace the chill
and funereal best room in a Wisconsin farmhouse. Ferdinand
Brandeis marked it at six dollars and stood it up for the
Christmas trade. That had been ten years before. It was
too expensive; or too pretentious, or perhaps even too
horrible for the bucolic purse. At any rate, it had been
taken out, brushed, dusted, and placed on its stand every
holiday season for ten years. On the day after Christmas it
was always there, its lightning-struck plush face staring
wildly out upon the ravaged fancy-goods counter. It would
be packed in its box again and consigned to its long
summer's sleep. It had seen three towns, and many changes.
The four dollars that Ferdinand Brandeis had invested in it
still remained unturned.

One snowy day in November (Ferdinand Brandeis died a
fortnight later) Mrs. Brandeis, entering the store, saw two
women standing at the fancy-goods counter, laughing in a
stifled sort of way. One of them was bowing elaborately to
a person unseen. Mrs. Brandeis was puzzled. She watched
them for a moment, interested. One of the women was known
to her. She came up to them and put her question, bluntly,