CHAPTER X THE CEDAR CHEST The next day was passed much as days in a mountain-house party are usually passed. The weather was perfect. A slight shower in the early morning had cooled the air and freshened the foliage and grass, and the valley lay basking in the glorious sunshine of a summer day. There were drives along the mountain road and wheeling on the smooth path by its side. Three or four of the older guests went to Mount Washington. At four o’clock the tally-ho was brought out, and the Alpine horn went echoing up and down the hills as the gay party swept by. They were certainly having a good time, and were loud in their protestations of delight when they at last met together in the drawing-room waiting for the summons to dinner. Thanks to Alex.’s instructions, this was not more than half as long as the first had been, and Polly’s pedometer registered only a mile and a quarter when it was over. Sherry was not tired at all, but came near forgetting herself once or twice in her absorption in the conversation at the different tables, which she could hear as they were near each other. Some of the party had explored the attic and examined the quaint old furniture, and expressed interest and curiosity in the chest, wondering what it contained. “I can tell you in part,” Alex. said. “It is the wardrobe of a lady who lived here a hundred years ago, for what I know. She is buried in that little cemetery across the road. My great-uncle, Mr. Marsh, used to air them, Bowles told me, and he talked a good deal about a flowered silk that would stand alone.” “Oh-h!” and a chorus of voices broke in together. “Just the things for a masquerade, or costume party, or tableaux. Can’t we get into the chest?” Sherry held her breath as she listened to Alex.’s reply. “Why, yes. I don’t know where the key is, but we can wrench off the padlock. I suppose the chest belongs to me if the house does.” “Certainly it does,” his mother said, while Charley Reeves, who sat at the table nearest to Alex., asked: “Who were the aborigines, anyhow?” “Crosbys,” Alex. answered. “They owned the place first years and years ago, and if I knew where any of the descendants were living I should feel inclined to send them the old chest, if they cared for it. It seems as if the clothes should belong to them. I have no use for them. There is a relative of the Crosbys in New York,—a woman without sentiment, I should say, who would not care for such old truck. It is young people who go in for relics. Mrs. Pledger seems like one herself. Maybe you have heard of Joel Pledger? Almost every one has, though his name was new to me till recently.”