"I can't help it," she explained as she wiped her eyes, "that clock knows me as well as I know its face. Why, many a time Cynthia and I'd sit right where we could look at it--while we were telling each other foolish little happenings--so's we wouldn't talk too long." Grandma went back to where she had left that faded lamp mat but she knew what was about to happen in that attic that 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.