“She was broken-hearted of course. When she found out what had happened, she took all her wedding things, and her supply of linen, and some presents that had been given her, and packed them all away in this old blue chest. Then she went away back to Montreal, and took the key with her. She never came back to the Island again--I suppose she couldn’t bear to. And she has lived in Montreal ever since and never married. She is an old woman now--nearly seventy-five. And this chest has never been opened since.” “Mother wrote to Cousin Rachel ten years ago,” said Cecily, “and asked her if she might open the chest to see if the moths had got into it. There’s a crack in the back as big as your finger. Cousin Rachel wrote back that if it wasn’t for one thing that was in the trunk she would ask mother to open the chest and dispose of the things as she liked. But she could not bear that any one but herself should see or touch that one thing. So she wanted it left as it was. Ma said she washed her hands of it, moths or no moths. She said if Cousin Rachel had to move that chest every time the floor had to be scrubbed it would cure her of her sentimental nonsense. But I think,” concluded Cecily, “that I would feel just like Cousin Rachel in her place.” “What was the thing she couldn’t bear any one to see?” I asked. “Ma thinks it was her wedding dress. But father says he believes it was Will Montague’s picture,” said Felicity. “He saw her put it in. Father knows some of the things that are in the chest. He was ten years old, and he saw her pack it. There’s a white muslin wedding dress and a veil--and--and--a--a”--Felicity dropped her eyes and blushed painfully. “A petticoat, embroidered by hand from hem to belt,” said the Story Girl calmly. “And a china fruit basket with an apple on the handle,” went on Felicity, much relieved. “And a tea set, and a blue candle-stick.” “I’d dearly love to see all the things that are in it,” said the Story Girl. “Pa says it must never be opened without Cousin Rachel’s permission,” said Cecily. Felix and I looked at the chest reverently. It had taken on a new significance in our eyes, and seemed like a tomb wherein lay buried some dead romance of the vanished years. “What happened to Will Montague?” I asked. “Nothing!” said the Story Girl viciously. “He just went on living and flourishing. He patched up matters with his creditors after awhile, and came back to the Island; and in the end he married a real nice girl, with money, and was very happy. Did you ever HEAR of anything so unjust?” “Beverley King,” suddenly cried Felicity, who had been peering into a pot, “YOU’VE GONE AND PUT THE TURNIPS ON TO BOIL WHOLE JUST LIKE POTATOES!” “Wasn’t that right?” I cried, in an agony of shame. “Right!” but Felicity had already whisked the turnips out, and was slicing them, while all the others were laughing at me. I had added a tradition on my own account to the family archives.