“Oh, nothing!--nothing of any importance--nothing at all,” she said; and moved over to the piano and began one of his favorite airs. And he forgot the box again in an instant. She had always been able to make Clarke forget things, when she wanted to. But the next day it suddenly came to him, out of that nowhere-in-particular from which thoughts come to mortals, that she had been almost as much confused at his sudden question as she had at his previous sudden entrance. Clarke was not a suspicious person; not even a very curious one, as a rule. But it was so evident to him that there was something in that box which his wife did not wish him to see that he could not help but wonder. Always frank with her, and always accustomed to an equal candor on her part, it occurred to him that he would ask her again, in something more than a casual way, and that she would certainly tell him, at the same time clearing up her former hesitation. But no!--why should he ask her? That would be to make something out of nothing; this was a trifle, and not worth thinking about. But he continued thinking about it, nevertheless.... Ah, he had it! What a chump he had been, not to guess it sooner! His birthday was only ten days off, and his wife had been planning to surprise him with a remembrance of some sort. Of course! That accounted for the whole thing. With this idea in his head, he said nothing more about the box, but waited. And when dinner was over and they sat before the fire together, on the evening of the anniversary, he still forbore to mention it, expecting every moment that the next she would present him with the token. But as the evening wore away, with no sign on her part, he finally broke an interval of silence with the remark: “Well, dear, don't keep me guessing any longer! Bring it to me!” “Guessing? Bring you--what?” And he could see that she was genuinely puzzled. “Why, my birthday present.” “Why, my dear boy! And did you expect one? And I had forgotten! Positively forgotten--it _is_ your birthday, isn't it, Dickie! If I had only known you _wanted_ one--------” And she came up and kissed him, with something like contrition, although his birthday had never been one of the sentimental anniversaries which she felt bound to observe with gifts. “Don't feel bad about it--I don't care, you know--really,” he said. “Only, I thought you had something of the sort in that brass-bound box--that was the only reason I mentioned it.” “Brass-bound box--why, no, I--I forgot it. I'm ashamed of myself, but I forgot the date entirely!” But she volunteered no explanation of what the box contained, although the opportunity was so good a one. And Clarke wondered more than ever. What could it be? The letters of some former sweetheart? Well, all girls had sweethearts before they married, he supposed; at least all men did. He had had several himself. There was nothing in that. And he would not make an ass of himself by saying any more about it.