“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.

“No, indeed!” Aunt Janet folded up the letter decidedly.  “That chest has been locked up for fifty years, and it’ll stand being locked up one more night.  You children wouldn’t sleep a wink to-night if we opened it now.  You’d go wild with excitement.”

“I’m sure I won’t sleep anyhow,” said Felicity.  “Well, at least you’ll open it the first thing in the morning, won’t you, ma?”

“No, I’ll do nothing of the sort,” was Aunt Janet’s pitiless decree.  “I want to get the work out of the way first—­and Roger and Olivia will want to be here, too.  We’ll say ten o’clock to-morrow forenoon.”

“That’s sixteen whole hours yet,” sighed Felicity.

“I’m going right over to tell the Story Girl,” said Cecily.  “Won’t she be excited!”

We were all excited.  We spent the evening speculating on the possible contents of the chest, and Cecily dreamed miserably that night that the moths had eaten everything in it.

The morning dawned on a beautiful world.  A very slight fall of snow had come in the night—­just enough to look like a filmy veil of lace flung over the dark evergreens, and the hard frozen ground.  A new blossom time seemed to have revisited the orchard.  The spruce wood behind the house appeared to be woven out of enchantment.  There is nothing more beautiful than a thickly growing wood of firs lightly powdered with new-fallen snow.  As the sun remained hidden by gray clouds, this fairy-beauty lasted all day.