Felicity and the Story Girl and I walked down to the post-office for the mail, along a road where fallen leaves went eddying fitfully up and down before us in weird, uncanny dances of their own. The evening was full of eerie sounds--the creaking of fir boughs, the whistle of the wind in the tree-tops, the vibrations of strips of dried bark on the rail fences. But we carried summer and sunshine in our hearts, and the bleak unloveliness of the outer world only intensified our inner radiance. Felicity wore her new velvet hood, with a coquettish little collar of white fur about her neck. Her golden curls framed her lovely face, and the wind stung the pink of her cheeks to crimson. On my left hand walked the Story Girl, her red cap on her jaunty brown head. She scattered her words along the path like the pearls and diamonds of the old fairy tale. I remember that I strutted along quite insufferably, for we met several of the Carlisle boys and I felt that I was an exceptionally lucky fellow to have such beauty on one side and such charm on the other. There was one of father’s thin letters for Felix, a fat, foreign letter for the Story Girl, addressed in her father’s minute handwriting, a drop letter for Cecily from some school friend, with “In Haste” written across the corner, and a letter for Aunt Janet, postmarked Montreal. “I can’t think who that is from,” said Felicity. “Nobody in Montreal ever writes to mother. Cecily’s letter is from Em Frewen. She always puts ‘In Haste’ on her letters, no matter what is in them.” When we reached home, Aunt Janet opened and read her Montreal letter. Then she laid it down and looked about her in astonishment. “Well, did ever any mortal!” she said. “What in the world is the matter?” said Uncle Alec. “This letter is from James Ward’s wife in Montreal,” said Aunt Janet solemnly. “Rachel Ward is dead. And she told James’ wife to write to me and tell me to open the old blue chest.” “Hurrah!” shouted Dan. “Donald King,” said his mother severely, “Rachel Ward was your relation and she is dead. What do you mean by such behaviour?” “I never was acquainted with her,” said Dan sulkily. “And I wasn’t hurrahing because she is dead. I hurrahed because that blue chest is to be opened at last.” “So poor Rachel is gone,” said Uncle Alec. “She must have been an old woman--seventy-five I suppose. I remember her as a fine, blooming young woman. Well, well, and so the old chest is to be opened at last. What is to be done with its contents?” “Rachel left instructions about them,” answered Aunt Janet, referring to the letter. “The wedding dress and veil and letters are to be burned. There are two jugs in it which are to be sent to James’ wife. The rest of the things are to be given around among the connection. Each members is to have one, ‘to remember her by.’” “Oh, can’t we open it right away this very night?” said Felicity eagerly.