Miss Cynthia’s voice and eyes were strangely gentle as she talked about the youthful great-aunt whose shining gown had been one of her choicest treasures for so many years, and Ruth began to like her.

“Do you know how she looked?” she asked with real interest in her voice.  “I should like to imagine her in this lovely dress.”

“My aunt,” answered Miss Cynthia musingly, “was too young when she died to remember her; but she has told me many times that her father, who was the first Cynthia’s brother, often said she was the prettiest creature the sun ever shone on, with black hair and rosy cheeks and blue eyes that were like violets.  I like to talk about her,” added Miss Cynthia.  “Here are more things my Aunt Cynthia left me.”

Ruth, who had an instinctive liking for delicate fabrics and fine embroideries, reveled in the beautiful pieces of hand-work which Miss Cynthia showed her.  There was a muslin gown embroidered so profusely that one wondered if the patient needlewoman had any eyes left when her artistic work was completed.  There were fichus, small and large, with patterns simple and elaborate, looking as though a breath might blow them out of existence, so fragile was their substance.  Ruth laughed gleefully at the face which looked out at her from the mirror when Miss Cynthia told her to put on a queer, old bonnet which she called a calash.  There was a ribbon hanging under her chin which the old lady called a bridle, and when Ruth pulled it the bonnet stretched like the top of an old-fashioned chaise.

“How funny,” laughed Ruth.  “Did you. really ever wear one like this?”

“That was my dear mother’s,” answered Miss Cynthia, “but I can just remember having one when I was a little girl.”

“Oh, dear.  I hate to leave all these interesting things, but I must go home,” said Ruth, reluctantly laying the calash on the bed, and taking a last look at the beautiful things displayed there.  “I’ve had a lovely call, Miss Cynthia, and I thank you so much for letting me see these wonderful old dresses.”

“My dear, if you would prize it I should like you to have this handkerchief which was my Great-aunt Cynthia’s.”

“Oh, Miss Cynthia, I couldn’t take anything so lovely,” protested Ruth.

“My dear child, there’s no one else who will care for these things as I have done, and it’s been a great pleasure to show them to some one who is sympathetic, and—­and I know my little great-aunt would have liked you to have it if she could have known you.”

Miss Cynthia’s voice was trembling and her eyes looked clouded and wistful.  Ruth could hardly believe that this was the sharp-voiced, prying old lady whom she had wished to escape meeting earlier in the afternoon.

“Dear Miss Cynthia,” she answered impulsively, “I never shall forget your Great-aunt Cynthia, and I shall be delighted to own something that belonged to her.  I’m sure I never had anything half so lovely as this cobwebby handkerchief.  Have the other girls,” she went on hesitatingly, “ever seen these beautiful old things?” She would have liked to ask that they might all see them together some day, but she hardly dared.