he sunset light, with the old
yellowed bridal veil across my lap and the portrait of Eliza Laurance
in my hand. Around me were the relics of her pitiful story--the old,
oft-repeated story of a faithless love and a woman's broken heart--the
gown she had worn, the slippers in which she had danced
light-heartedly at her betrothal ball, her fan, her pearls, her
gloves--and it somehow seemed to me as if I were living in those old
years myself, as if the love and happiness, the betrayal and pain were
part of my own life. Presently Aunt Winnifred came back through the
twilight shadows.

"Let us put all these things back in their grave, Amy," she said.
"They are of no use to anyone now. The linen might be bleached and
used, I dare say--but it would seem like a sacrilege. It was Mother's
wedding present to Eliza. And the pearls--would you care to have them,
Amy?"

"Oh, no, no," I said with a little shiver. "I would never wear them,
Aunt Winnifred. I should feel like a ghost if I did. Put everything
back just as we found it--only her portrait. I would like to keep
that."

Reverently we put gowns and letters and trinkets back into the old
blue chest. Aunt Winnifred closed the lid and turned the key softly.
She bowed her head over it for a minute and then we went together in
silence down the shadowy garret stairs of Wyther Grange.

The Osbornes' Christmas

Cousin Myra had come to spend Christmas at "The Firs," and all the
junior Osbornes were ready to stand on their heads with delight.
Darby--whose real name was Charles--did it, because he was only eight,
and at eight you have no dignity to keep up. The others, being older,
couldn't.

But the fact of Christmas itself awoke no great enthusiasm in the
hearts of the junior Osbornes. Frank voiced their opinion of it the
day after Cousin Myra had arrived. He was sitting on the table with
his hands in his pockets and a cynical sneer on his face. At least,
Frank flattered himself that it was cynical. He knew that Uncle Edgar
was said to wear a cynical sneer, and Frank admired Uncle Edgar very
much and imitated him in every possible way. But to you and me it
would have looked just as it did to Cousin Myra--a very discontented
and unbecoming scowl.

"I'm awfully glad to see you, Cousin Myra," explained Frank carefully,
"and your being here may make some things worth while. But Christmas
is just a bore--a regular bore."

That was what Uncle Edgar called things that didn't