Underneath were the baby clothes which the girl-wife had begun to make when she first knew of her child’s coming.  The cloth was none too fine and the little garments were awkwardly cut and badly sewn, but every stitch had been guided by a great love.

Araminta’s first shoes were there, too—­soft, formless things of discoloured white kid.  Folded in a yellowed paper was a tiny, golden curl, snipped secretly, and marked on the outside:  “Minty’s hair.”  Farther down in the trunk were the few relics of Miss Mehitable’s far-away girlhood.

A dog-eared primer, a string of bright buttons, a broken slate, a ragged, disreputable doll, and a few blown birds’ eggs carefully packed away in a small box of cotton—­these were her treasures.  There was an old autograph album with a gay blue cover which the years in the trunk had not served to fade.  Far down in the trunk was a package which Miss Mehitable took out reverently.  It was large and flat and tied with heavy string in hard knots.  She untied the knots patiently—­her mother had taught her never to cut a string.

Underneath was more paper, and more string.  It took her half an hour to bring to light the inmost contents of the package, bound in layer after layer of fine muslin, but not tied.  She unrolled the yellowed cloth carefully, for it was very frail.  At last she took out a photograph—­Anthony Dexter at three-and-twenty—­and gazed at it long.

On one page of her autograph album was written an old rhyme.  The ink had faded so that it was scarcely legible, but Miss Hitty knew it by heart: 

  “’If you love me as I love you
  No knife can cut our love in two.’ 
    Your sincere friend,
      ANTHONY DEXTER.”

Like a tiny sprig of lavender taken from a bush which has never bloomed, this bit of romance lay far back in the secret places of her life.  She had a knot of blue ribbon which Anthony Dexter had once given her, a lead pencil which he had gallantly sharpened, and which she had never used.

Her life had been barren—­Miss Mehitable knew that, and in her hours of self-analysis, admitted it.  She would gladly have taken Evelina’s full measure of suffering in exchange for one tithe of Araminta’s joy.  After Anthony Dexter had turned from her to Evelina, Miss Mehitable had openly scorned him.  She had spent the rest of her life, since, in showing him and the rest that men were nothing to her and that he was least of all.

She had hovered near his patients simply for the sake of seeing him—­she did not care for them at all.  She sat in the front window that she might see him drive by, and counted that day lost which brought her no sight of him.  This was her one tenderness, her one vulnerable point.

The afternoon shadows grew long and the maple branches ceased to sway.  Outside a bird crooned a lullaby to his nesting mate.  An oriole perched on the topmost twig of an evergreen in a corner of the yard, and opened his golden throat in a rapture of song.