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Mrs. DeLisle sighed softly and made no reply. People said that she had had her own romance in her youth and that her mother had sternly repressed it. I had heard that her marriage with Mr. DeLisle was loveless on her part and proved very unhappy. But he had been dead many years, and Aunt Winnifred never spoke of him.

“I have made up my mind what to do,” said Grandmother decidedly. “I will write to Eliza and ask her if I may open the chest to see if the moths have got into it. If she refuses, well and good. I have no doubt that she will refuse. She will cling to her old sentimental ideas as long as the breath is in her body.”

I rather avoided the old chest after this. It took on a new significance in my eyes and seemed to me like the tomb of something–possibly some dead and buried romance of the past.

Later on a letter came to Grandmother; she passed it over the table to Mrs. DeLisle.

“That is from Eliza,” she said. “I would know her writing anywhere–none of your modern sprawly, untidy hands, but a fine lady-like script, as regular as copperplate. Read the letter, Winnifred; I haven’t my glasses and I dare say Eliza’s rhapsodies would tire me very much. You need not read them aloud–I can imagine them all. Let me know what she says about the chest.”

Aunt Winnifred opened and read the letter and laid it down with a brief sigh.

“This is all she says about the chest. ‘If it were not for one thing that is in it, I would ask you to open the chest and burn all its contents. But I cannot bear that anyone but myself should see or touch that one thing. So please leave the chest as it is, dear Aunt. It is no matter if the moths do get in.’ That is all,” continued Mrs. DeLisle, “and I must confess that I am disappointed. I have always had an almost childish curiosity about that old chest, but I seem fated not to have it gratified. That ‘one thing’ must be her wedding dress. I have always thought that she locked it away there.”

“Her answer is just what I expected of her,” said Grandmother impatiently. “Evidently the years have not made her more sensible. Well, I wash my hands of her belongings, moths or no moths.”

It was not until ten years afterwards that I heard anything more of the old chest. Grandmother Laurance had died, but Aunt Winnifred still lived at the Grange. She was very lonely, and the winter after Grandmother’s death she sent me an invitation to make her a long visit.

When I revisited the garret and saw the old blue chest in the same dusty corner, my childish curiosity revived and I begged Aunt Winnifred to tell me its history.

“I am glad you have reminded me of it,” said Mrs. DeLisle. “I have intended to open the chest ever since Mother’s death but I kept putting it off. You know, Amy, poor Eliza Laurance died five years ago, but even then Mother would not have the chest opened. There is no reason why it should not be examined now. If you like, we will go and open it at once and afterwards I will tell you the story.”

We went eagerly up the garret stairs. Aunt knelt down before the old chest and selected a key from the bunch at her belt.

“Would it not be too provoking, Amy, if this key should not fit after all? Well, I do not believe you would be any more disappointed than I.”

She turned the key and lifted the heavy lid. I bent forward eagerly. A layer of tissue paper revealed itself, with a fine tracing of sifted dust in its crinkles.

“Lift it up, child,” said my aunt gently. “There are no ghosts for you, at least, in this old chest.”