She shook the dust from an old-fashioned daguerreotype case, then opened
it. On the left side was a young soldier in uniform, full length--a
dashing, handsome figure with one hand upon a drawn sword. Printed in
faded gilt upon the dusty red satin that made up the other half of the
case, the words were still distinct: "To Colonel Richard Kent, from his
friend, Jean Bernard."

"Jean Bernard!" Isabel repeated, curiously. "Who was he?"

"Aunt Francesca's husband," answered Rose, with a little catch in her
voice, "and my uncle. He died in the War."

"Oh," said Isabel, unmoved. "He was nice looking, wasn't he? Shall we
take this to Aunt Francesca?"

"You forget that it isn't ours to take," Rose reminded her. "And, by the
way, Isabel, you must never speak to Aunt Francesca of her husband. She
cannot bear it."

"All right," assented the girl. "What is this?"

From the back of the drawer she took out a bronze medal, with a faded
ribbon of red, white, and blue attached to it. She took it to the light,
rubbed it with her handkerchief, and slowly made out the words: "Awarded
to Colonel Richard Kent, for conspicuous bravery in action at
Gettysburg."

"Put the things back," Rose suggested, gently. This tiny, secret drawer,
Colonel Kent's holy of holies, symbolised and epitomised the best of a