“Tin patty pans aren’t very romantic,” said the Story Girl discontentedly.

“I notice that you are as fond as any one of what is baked in them,” said Aunt Janet.  “I’ve heard of those patty pans.  An old servant Grandmother King had gave them to Rachel.  Now we are coming to the linen.  That was Uncle Edward Ward’s present.  How yellow it has grown.”

We children were not greatly interested in the sheets and tablecloths and pillow-cases which now came out of the capacious depths of the old blue chest.  But Aunt Olivia was quite enraptured over them.

“What sewing!” she said.  “Look, Janet, you’d almost need a magnifying glass to see the stitches.  And the dear, old-fashioned pillow-slips with buttons on them!”

“Here are a dozen handkerchiefs,” said Aunt Janet.  “Look at the initial in the corner of each.  Rachel learned that stitch from a nun in Montreal.  It looks as if it was woven into the material.”

“Here are her quilts,” said Aunt Olivia.  “Yes, there is the blue and white counterpane Grandmother Ward gave her—­and the Rising Sun quilt her Aunt Nancy made for her—­and the braided rug.  The colours are not faded one bit.  I want that rug, Janet.”

Underneath the linen were Rachel Ward’s wedding clothes.  The excitement of the girls waxed red hot over these.  There was a Paisley shawl in the wrappings in which it had come from the store, and a wide scarf of some yellowed lace.  There was the embroidered petticoat which had cost Felicity such painful blushes, and a dozen beautifully worked sets of the fine muslin “undersleeves” which had been the fashion in Rachel Ward’s youth.

“This was to have been her appearing out dress,” said Aunt Olivia, lifting out a shot green silk.  “It is all cut to pieces—­but what a pretty soft shade it was!  Look at the skirt, Janet.  How many yards must it measure around?”

“Hoopskirts were in then,” said Aunt Janet.  “I don’t see her wedding hat here.  I was always told that she packed it away, too.”

“So was I. But she couldn’t have.  It certainly isn’t here.  I have heard that the white plume on it cost a small fortune.  Here is her black silk mantle.  It seems like sacrilege to meddle with these clothes.”

“Don’t be foolish, Olivia.  They must be unpacked at least.  And they must all be burned since they have cut so badly.  This purple cloth dress is quite good, however.  It can be made over nicely, and it would become you very well, Olivia.”

“No, thank you,” said Aunt Olivia, with a little shudder.  “I should feel like a ghost.  Make it over for yourself, Janet.”

“Well, I will, if you don’t want it.  I am not troubled with fancies.  That seems to be all except this box.  I suppose the wedding dress is in it.”

“Oh,” breathed the girls, crowding about Aunt Olivia, as she lifted out the box and cut the cord around it.  Inside was lying a dress of soft silk, that had once been white but was now yellowed with age, and, enfolding it like a mist, a long, white bridal veil, redolent with some strange, old-time perfume that had kept its sweetness through all the years.