Did I tell you that the husband of the frail one had died in 1860, and that they had both worn mourning for him ever since? It was he who had used, sometimes, to invent a third part to their duet—a tremendous bass. The other precious thing in this garret was a trousseau. Once I saw a bonnet of white silk—made coal-scuttle fashion—shirred (I think that is the name)—and with a simple red rose inside where it nestled against thick brown hair and cheeks with pink spots in them—at least so they are all pictured in the old daguerreotype taken at Philadelphia. And there was a wondrous silk dress of a wide stripe—white, with just a dash of pink in the moiré. It could be worn to-day. It is not cut at all. But it is much more soft and gentle—this fabric woven only by worms and human hands—than those woven on power-looms. Then there was a pair of satin slippers with strings to cross over the ankles, and a marvellous petticoat—all feather-stitching! A veil, too, turned quite yellow now, which had always wrapped some sprays of flowers, the stems of which only remained. But one could see that they had been orange blossoms—_mock_-orange blossoms. They grew in the front yard of the two old ladies—when they were not _old_ ladies at all. They grow there still. Mock-orange blossoms. There was, too, a pair of stockings, which, I was often told, had come straight from London. Think of that! They had pink clocks at the sides ending in rosebuds. After that the trousseau was of intimate things I may not mention—and which I never saw—perhaps could not name—for when these were likely to be uncovered the lid of the chest was softly, deprecatingly closed in my face. But I know that they were infinitely adorned. II THE EYES THAT WEPT TILL THEY WENT BLIND Their conversation has been going on all the while they have sat there on the floor. Listen: “I wore this on my wedding journey. Brides did that then.” “A bride wished it known that she was a bride in those days, didn’t she?” “Yes, indeed. She was proud of it. Not ashamed.” “It was your first railroad journey?” “Yes. There was only one railroad in this part of the country then. And it was a long time before the people got reconciled to travelling so fast. Each one expected never to get back alive. But we went all the way to Philadelphia on it. And it took only three days. There was lots of smoke from the engine. Even Hiliary preferred the stage. But I—Here a small cinder burnt a hole.” The blind one would feel it. “You looked very pretty then, sis. I saw you—_go_.” Sis would not reply. There was not a spark of vanity in her. But she was very pretty at that moment. And there were the Philadelphia daguerreotypes to prove that she was pretty in 1857. “We were married only three years.” _We!_ It meant the _three_ of them. It was this the blind one thought of most. Remember that when we finally get to the story. “Yes, Hiliary died in 1860.”