"One moment, child. There was something more I wished to say to you. Look here." She unlocked drawer after drawer. There lay, carefully arranged, all her wedding clothes, even to the white silk dress, the wreath and veil. Everything was put away in Penelope's own tidy, over-particular fashion, wrapped in silver paper, or smoothly folded, with sprigs of lavender between. She must have done it leisurely and orderly, after her peculiar habit, which made us, when she was only a girl of seventeen, teaze Penelope by calling her "old maid!" Even now, she paused more than once, to re-fold or re-arrange something--tenderly, as one would arrange the clothes of a person who was dead--then closed and locked every drawer, putting the key, not on her household-bunch, but in a corner of her desk. "I should not like anything touched in my lifetime, but, should I die--not that this is likely; I believe I shall live to be an old woman--still, should I die, you will know, where these things are. Do with them exactly what you think best. And if money is wanted for--" She stopped, and then, for the first time, I heard her pronounce his name, distinctly and steadily, like any other name, "for Francis Charteris, or any one belonging to him--sell them. You will promise?" I promised. Mrs. Granton, dear soul! asked no questions, but took the necklace, and gave me the money, which I brought to my sister. She received it without a word. After this, all went on as heretofore; and though sometimes I have felt her eye upon me when I was opening your letters, as if she fancied there might be something to hear, still, since there never was anything, I thought it best to take no notice. But Max, I wished often, and wish now, that you would tell me if there is any special reason why, for so many weeks, you have never mentioned Francis? I was telling you about Penelope. She has fallen into her old busy ways--busier than ever, indeed. She looks well too, "quite herself again," as Mrs. Granton whispered to me, one morning when--wonderful event--I had persuaded my sister that we ought to drive over to lunch at the Cedars, and admire all the preparations for the reception of Mrs. Colin, next month. "I would not have liked to ask her," added the good old lady; "but since she did come, I am glad. The sight of my young folk's happiness will not pain her? She has really got over her trouble, you think?"