"It was Maman's--do not touch it!" "That was Louisa's, you cannot have
it!" Or most fearful cry of all, "Put that shawl back, Felicia! It was
Madame Josepha's--Louisa herself never wore it, it cost so much!"

The storeroom key was kept in the pocket of Mademoiselle's black silk
apron. Gradually the miserly soul locked away all that seemed
desirable or lovely to Felicia.

Of course there came a day when she stole the key and when she hid
herself a whole blissful afternoon and rummaged joyously through dusty
bandboxes and huge curved-top trunks. She had opened an iron-bound box
last. And in the top had found a case marked,

"Mme. J. Trenton,
8 Rue de la--"

the rest was blurred. There were a lot of papers--all of them in
French, in a queer old case of crushed leather. And when she thrust
them carelessly underneath she found the tiniest muslin garments she
had ever seen. They puzzled her greatly; she held one against her
cheek instinctively.

"What a very little woman must have worn you--" she whispered, "As
little as--" she frowned, "the thing made of string in the shop where
we got the Wheezy--as little as Babiche. I wish--I wish I could have
seen as little a woman as that--"

She sprang up startled, Mademoiselle was coming. Felicia had the door
locked and was standing outside, a slim, dusty, shining-eyed figure