"That's all past
an' gone. There ain't no way of settlin' old scores but buryin' of 'em.
She was older'n we were, an' on'y a step-sister, arter all. We must
think o' that. Well, I must come to the end o' my story, an' then we'll
open the chist. Next day arter we laid her away, it come into my head,
'Now we can burn up them things.' It may ha' been wicked, but there 't
was, an' the thought kep' arter me, till all I could think of was the
chist; an' byme-by I says to Mary Ellen, one mornin', 'Le's open it
to-day an' make a burnfire!' An' Mary Ellen she turned as white as a
sheet, an' dropped her spoon into her sasser, an' she says: 'Not yet!
Luceba, don't you ask me to touch it yet.' An' I found out, though she
never 'd say another word, that it unset her more'n it did me. One day,
I come on her up attic stan'in' over it with the key in her hand, an'
she turned round as if I'd ketched her stealin', an' slipped off
downstairs. An' this arternoon, she went into Tilly Ellison's with her
work, an' it come to me all of a sudden how I'd git Tim Yatter to
harness an' load the chist onto the pung, an' I'd bring it over here,
an' we'd look it over together; an' then, if there's nothin' in it but
what I think, I'd leave it behind, an' maybe you or Sadie 'd burn it.
John Cole happened to ride by, and he helped me in with it. I ain't
a-goin' to have Mary Ellen worried. She's different from me. She went to
school, same's you have, an' she's different somehow. She's been meddled
with all her life, an' I'll be whipped if she sha'n't make a new start.
Should you jest as lieves ask Sadie or John?"

"Why, yes," said Isabel wonderingly; "or do it myself. I don't see why
you care."

Aunt Luceba wiped her beaded face with a large handkerchief.

"I dunno either," she owned, in an exhausted voice. "I guess it's al'ays
little things you can't stand. Big ones you can butt ag'inst. There! I
feel better, now I've told ye. Here's the key. Should you jest as soon
open it?"

Isabel drew the chest forward with a vigorous pull of her sturdy arm.
She knelt before it and inserted the key. Aunt Luceba rose and leaned
over her shoulder, gazing with the fascination of horror. At the moment
the lid was lifted, a curious odor filled the room.

"My soul!" exclaimed Aunt Luceba. "O my soul!" She seemed incapable of
saying more; and Isabel, awed in spite of herself, asked, in a
whisper:--

"What's that smell? I know, but I can't think."

"You take out t