at day. She picked up
one thing after another but she no longer saw what it was her hands
were holding. For above the steady patter of the rain she could hear
the old clock ticking. And to her, knowing what she did, it seemed to
say:

"Tell him--tell--him--Cynthia wants you to tell him."

So she just sat down in an old chair and waited for Cynthia's son to
find that square trunk with the brass nail-heads. She tried to read
something in some faded yellow fashion papers but the letters jumped
and blurred. And she was glad to hear the boy's shout of discovery.

"Why, here's that trunk mother must have meant! Come over here,
Grandma, and look at it."

She went and sat down and was so quiet that Nanny, who had been looking
up from the pictures she was dusting, laid them down and came over to
watch too. Something about Grandma's drooping head and folded hands
must have touched the boy, for as he turned the key in the lock he
looked up and asked a question.

"Do you know what's in it, Grandma?"

"Yes," she nodded, "I know what's in it because I helped fill it. Open
it carefully."

So the boy raised the lid slowly. Very carefully he removed the old
newspapers, then the soft linen sheet and took out a flat bundle that
lay on top, all snugly pinned up. Nan helped take out the pins, then
gave a smothered cry at the lovely wedding gown of stiff creamy satin.

In silence the other things were brought out. The lacy bridal veil,
the little buckled slippers, the full, filmy petticoats and all the
soft white ribbony things that it is the right of every bride to have.
Down at the very bottom of the trunk were bundles of letters, some
faded photographs and a little jewel box in which was a little silver
forget-me-not ring.

Grandma put out her hand for the faded photographs, stared at them,
then passed one to Cynthia's son.

"Look closely and see if you can guess who it is?"

He took it to a window and looked long at the pictured face but finally
shook his head.

"Give it to Nan," directed Grandma.

Nan looked only a second.

"Why, it's Uncle Roger Allan!"

"Yes--it's Roger Allan."

"But what has--" began Cynthia's son, when Grandma interrupted him.

"You'd better both sit down to hear this," she suggested. "Of course,
I knew, John, the very first week you were home, that your mother never
told you about this trunk. I can see why and I agree with her. In the
first place it all happened nearly forty yea