After looking at it a long time next day, without prying off the lock and peeking inside, she had decided that she must, if possible, have it for her very own. So she asked her uncle to sell her the trunk. "What!" he exclaimed, "you have opened that little trunk? You have found a diamond, or maybe some stocks and bonds? Now you want to buy it for a little." His small, hard eyes gleamed. "No." She had held her ground. "I have not opened it. You may go and see that it is still locked. But I--I like the trunk and I--I'm sure I should have loved its owner. That--that's why I want to buy it." "All right." He had smiled broadly. "But I must have a profit. Six dollars. You may have it for that. I will take it from your pay. "But, my child--" He had laid a hand gently on her arm. "You must not do these things. They make you soft. And soft you must not be in this business." Nevertheless, she had remained "soft." She had purchased the trunk "with contents, if any." She had picked the lock with a hairpin and had spent three happy, tearful hours poring over its contents. The person who lost the trunk was named Emily Anne Sheldon. She had two sisters. Their pictures were all there. "The sweetest little old ladies one may ever hope to see," Grace had assured herself. "What a shame that this trunk should have been lost!" There were bundles of letters tied with faded ribbons. The letters were like a beautiful song, sung at sunset. "If only the whole world were like these three dear old ladies," she had sighed. The blankets in that trunk were of finest wool, and very old. Perhaps they had been hand-woven. She could not tell. There was a blue and white bedspread that was hand-woven, she was sure of that. "And it's worth several times what I paid for the trunk," she told herself. "But I won't sell it. I'll get in touch with Emily Anne and send it all back for a Christmas present." In the very bottom of the trunk she had found the ancient family Bible. For a long time she had left it there. Then she had decided to show it to Frank Morrow and his assistant, Nida McFay, and here she was. And Frank Morrow was telling her it was worth many hundreds of dollars! "Wr--wrap it up." She all but shuddered at thought of the wealth she was about to bear away under her arm. "Wrap it up and I'll take it home." Now wondering at Nida's sudden fear at sight of the stranger, and now puzzling over the problem of the apparently priceless book, Grace left the store to walk slowly down Maxwell Street. At once her mind was filled with a hundred thoughts. "This," she whispered, "is my crowded hour." And indeed, since that strange day when she had walked into her uncle's unusual store and had begun a fight for her few possessions, every hour had seemed crowded.