Madge Mortons Secret | Page 8

her room, her roll of blue silk tucked
under one arm, the sandalwood box in her hand.
"Of course you may, my dear. As long as you are going to use the silks
you might as well take the jewels too," sighed Mrs. Butler.
"Thank you," returned her niece, bending to kiss the older woman's
cheek, then she walked quietly from the room, her cheerful face
unusually sober.
"Madge is always sad after a visit to her mother's trunk," remarked
Eleanor, after her cousin had gone.
Mrs. Butler nodded, her own face saddened as she went back over the
years. Some day she would tell Madge the truth concerning her father
and why he had never returned to the homestead, but not now. She did
not wish to cast the slightest shadow upon her niece's joyous
anticipations of the coming trip.
Once in her room Madge took the little key from the pocket of her
middy blouse and laid it on her dressing table. Drawing up a chair, she
sat down, and opening the jewel box, began taking out the ornaments,
spreading them on the table before her. To her eyes, unaccustomed to
the sight of jewelry, they made an imposing array. When the last trinket
was out she turned her attention to the box itself. Empty, it was larger
and deeper than she supposed. Despite the fact that the jewelry had
been removed it was still heavy.

"It must be the weight of the wood that makes it feel heavy," she
reflected. "Why, it has a keyhole! I never noticed that before, it is so far
down, and, besides, the box has been unlocked ever since I can
remember."
She carefully examined the keyhole, then, with a swift rush of
disappointment, came the thought that the mysterious key was merely
that of the sandalwood box. To be sure, there were two little brass
catches which fastened the box tightly together. The lock had been put
on, no doubt, as an extra security, and rarely, if ever, used. But if such
were the case, why had the key been secreted in the sleeve of the black
velvet coat? After all, it might not fit the lock on the box. If it did, then
her secret was not really a secret after all. Madge reached for the object
of her cogitations and inserted it in the lock. It fitted. She gave it one
quick turn, then endeavored to pull it out. It stuck. Madge held the back
of the box with one hand to keep it from slipping and pulled hard. She
felt the box itself give. Then to her astonishment she saw that the lower
part of the box formed a drawer, the existence of which was cunningly
hidden by the carving, and it now stood open before her. In it lay a
small black leather book, and under the book was a single envelope
addressed to her mother.
With wondering eyes the girl peered into the envelope. Her hands
shook as she drew forth several closely written sheets of paper.
Unfolding them she saw only the salutation, "Beloved"; then she turned
to the signature. It read, "Your devoted husband, Robert Morton."
Madge gazed in fascination at her father's clear, bold handwriting. If it
were in the least indicative of character, her father must have been a
good man and true. Undoubtedly he had proved himself an honor to the
Navy and the Flag he had sworn to serve. She experienced a curious
thrill of satisfaction at this thought. Tearing her eyes from the beloved
name, she went back to the first page of the letter and began to read, but
when she reached the end of the second page she cried out in anguish,
and, laying her curly head on the dressing table, sobbed heart-brokenly.
"I can't bear it!" she wailed. "O Father, Father! how could they be so
cruel?" After a few moments she raised her head with a long, quivering

sigh, and went on with the letter. When she had finished it, she took up
the little black book. Her tears fell fast as she perused its pages. It was
her father's log book and contained, besides the notes concerning his
last fateful voyage as a naval officer, memoranda of his personal life
aboard ship as well.
Over the last half dozen pages--the record ended abruptly--Madge's
grief burst forth anew. After she had finished she sat for a long time
holding the little book against her cheek. The distant ringing of the
supper bell brought her to a realization of her surroundings. Tenderly
she laid the book and the letter in the secret drawer that had held them
so faithfully, inviolate from the eyes of the world; then, locking the
drawer she withdrew the key, and, taking from a