"Where is the working-case I gave you this morning?" asked Aunt Priscilla, as Calista rose to leave the room after supper. "I want to see it." "I took it to town to have the knife and scissors put in order so that I could use them, and I did not bring it home," answered Calista, telling the truth, but not quite the whole truth. "Humph! However, it doesn't matter to me; only I should like to know how you expected to pay for it." "Why, aunt, you know you gave me a whole sixpence," answered Calista. "More fool I!" answered Miss Priscilla, gruffly. "And Miss Druett also gave me a little money—so I was quite rich." "More fool she!" again ejaculated Miss Priscilla. "However, it is no concern of mine." Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap. And Calista, dismissed by a glance from Miss Druett, stole away to examine her treasures. The keys and locks were alike rusty, but a little grease from her treasured bit of tallow-candle soon removed that trouble; and it was with a feeling of awful delight that Calista opened the long-shut lids, and inhaled the odor of the spices, camphor, and tobacco, with which Mrs. Tom Folsom and Miss Malvina had embalmed their contents so long ago. It almost seemed to her as if she were about to have an interview with her mother. The first trunk she opened contained only linen—real linen, and of good quality—for, at the time poor Calista Folsom's wedding outfit was provided, cotton was very little worn, except in the shape of chintz. Calista found her own baby-clothes, pinned up in a separate bundle, and shed some tears over the dainty sewing, the beautiful satin stitch, and lace-like cut work with which they were adorned. The next trunk contained dresses and other things of that nature, and Calista opened her eyes wide at the three or four rich silks, the soft gray Canton crape, and the beautiful, unapproachable India camel's hair cloth—such as I remember seeing upon old ladies when I was young. Then there were two er three white dresses, worked in deep patterns, with floss and amazing lace stitches; a large white Canton crape shawl, and another which Calista was sure was an Indian cashmere, of a soft, dusky, almost smoky, red—such as no Western dyer ever attained or ever will—with wide borders at the ends and narrow ones at the sides. "I wonder whether I shall ever wear any of these things?" said Calista to herself, as she carefully restored them to their neat folds and wrappings. "But, oh, how I wish I could find something which tells more about herself!—some letters or journals. Perhaps they are in the other trunks."