"I'm sure you're quite right, Jennie," she said tamely. "You've always had a great deal of _judgment_. Gwynne, dear, how did you get that great black bruise on your forehead?" "I ran into something," Gwynne said, flushing. "Oh, Cousin Gwynne, oh, what an awful story!" Marian piped in her sharp treble. "It's where Cousin Sam threw the boot at you when he got mad at you the other day. Cousin Sam had a queer spell, I heard Hannah say so." "Marian!" cried her mother savagely. "Hannah's getting into her dotage, and imagines things," said Mrs. Horace Gwynne, reddening to her forehead. "I don't know what we're going to do with the poor old thing----" They all talked on desperately. It was a ghastly moment for everybody. The skeleton rattled its grisly bones in the Gwynne family closet, and there was something foolishly and pitiably heroic in the gallant effort they made to silence that hideous activity. Mrs. Lawrence and Mrs. Horace, the one Gwynne by blood, the other by adoption, forgot their private feud in the common defence. To your tents, O Israel! "You might look over those old daguerreotypes, Miss Clara," Mrs. Gwynne said. "Marian, run and get them for Miss Vardaman. I don't know who some of the people are, maybe you'll recognise them." Gwynne opened a case. "This one is all going to pieces," he said, as the little pad of faded green brocade in the lid fell out; behind it was a slip of yellowed paper. "Oh, look here, it has 'John to Louise, June, 1839,' on it, 'John to Louise'--who was that, do you suppose?" "Let me see it," said Miss Clara. "Louise? Maybe that's Louise Andrews--she was a Gwynne, you know," said Mrs. Lawrence frowning in an effort of recollection. "I can't think of any other Louise. Is there a picture of her? She was a great beauty." "Did you ever see her, Cousin Charlotte?" "Goodness, no, she's been dead I don't know how long." "I remember her," said Miss Vardaman. "I'm so much older than any of you. She married Leonard Andrews, she didn't live very long. Yes, she was very pretty. That's John's picture. Yes, I suppose it _does_ look funny, but that's the way they all dressed, you know, in those days. They were engaged and then they quarrelled about something--oh, dear me, it's years and years ago." "You'd better take that picture, Miss Clara," said Mrs. Horace Gwynne briskly. "Maybe Doctor Vardaman would like to have it, and--oh, I was going to speak to you about something. You know I'm managing everything and it's an awful responsibility; I've counted all the towels and sheets and measured all the pieces of goods I've found--nothing ought to be wasted or thrown away, you know. There're a whole lot of medicine-bottles upstairs, over three hundred--do you think the doctor could use them? They're very good bottles, you know, no corks of course--I thought maybe the doctor----" "John wouldn't have any use for them, I thank you, Jennie," said Miss Clara, stiffening.