Lavender and Old Lace | Page 9

burning when she reached it, though the oil was almost gone,
and, placing it by the stairway, that she might not forget to have it filled,
she determined to explore the attic to her heart's content.
The sunlight streamed through the east window and searched the

farthest corners of the room. The floor was bare and worn, but carefully
swept, and the things that were stored there were huddled together far
back under the eaves, as if to make room for others.
It was not idle curiosity, but delicate sentiment, that made Ruth eager to
open the trunks and dresser drawers, and to turn over the contents of
the boxes that were piled together and covered with dust. The interest
of the lower part of the house paled in comparison with the first real
attic she had ever been in.
After all, why not? Miss Hathaway was her aunt,--her mother's only
sister,--and the house was in her care. There was no earthly reason why
she should not amuse herself in her own way. Ruth's instincts were
against it, but Reason triumphed.
The bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the rafters and swaying back
and forth in ghostly fashion, gave out a wholesome fragrance, and
when she opened trunks whose lids creaked on their rusty hinges, dried
rosemary, lavender, and sweet clover filled the room with that
long-stored sweetness which is the gracious handmaiden of Memory.
Miss Hathaway was a thrifty soul, but she never stored discarded
clothing that might be of use to any one, and so Ruth found no
moth-eaten garments of bygone pattern, but only things which seemed
to be kept for the sake of their tender associations.
There were letters, on whose yellowed pages the words had long since
faded, a dogeared primer, and several well worn schoolbooks, each
having on its fly-leaf: "Jane Hathaway, Her Book"; scraps of lace,
brocade ard rustling taffeta, quilt patterns, needlebooks, and all of the
eloquent treasures that a well stored attic can yield.
As she replaced them, singing softly to herself, a folded newspaper
slipped to the floor. It was yellow and worn, like the letters, and she
unfolded it carefully. It was over thirty years old, and around a
paragraph on the last page a faint line still lingered. It was an
announcement of the marriage of Charles G. Winfield, captain of the
schooner Mary, to Miss Abigail Weatherby.

"Abigail Weatherby," she said aloud. The name had a sweet,
old-fashioned sound. "They must have been Aunt Jane's friends." She
closed the trunk and pushed it back to its place, under the eaves.
In a distant corner was the old cedar chest, heavily carved. She pulled it
out into the light, her cheeks glowing with quiet happiness, and sat
down on the floor beside it. It was evidently Miss Hathaway's treasure
box, put away in the attic when spinsterhood was confirmed by the
fleeting years.
On top, folded carefully in a sheet, was a gown of white brocade,
short-waisted and quaint, trimmed with pearl passementerie. The neck
was square, cut modestly low, and filled in with lace of a delicate,
frosty pattern--Point d'Alencon. Underneath the gown lay piles of
lingerie, all of the finest linen, daintily made by hand. Some of it was
trimmed with real lace, some with crocheted edging, and the rest with
hemstitched ruffles and feather-stitching.
There was another gown, much worn, of soft blue cashmere, some
sea-shells, a necklace of uncut turquoises, the colour changed to green,
a prayer-book, a little hymnal, and a bundle of letters, tied with a faded
blue ribbon, which she did not touch. There was but one picture--an
ambrotype, in an ornate case, of a handsome young man, with that
dashing, dare-devil look in his eyes which has ever been attractive to
women.
Ruth smiled as she put the treasures away, thinking that, had Fate
thrown the dice another way, the young man might have been her
esteemed and respected uncle. Then, all at once, it came to her that she
had unthinkingly stumbled upon her aunt's romance.
She was not a woman to pry into others' secrets, and felt guilty as she
fled from the attic, taking the lamp with her. Afterward, as she sat on
the narrow piazza, basking in the warm Spring sunshine, she pieced out
the love affair of Jane Hathaway's early girlhood after her own fashion.
She could see it all plainly. Aunt Jane had expected to be married to the
dashing young man and had had her trousseau in readiness, when

something happened. The folded paper would indicate that he was
Charles Winfield, who had married some one else, but whether Aunt
Jane had broken her engagement, or the possible Uncle Charles had
simply taken a mate without any such formality, was a subject of
conjecture.
Still, if