CHAPTER VIII. WINIFRED'S TREASURES.
The room into which Winifred led me was a model of neatness. The curtain upon the window, the cover upon the small bureau were of snowy-white; and the counterpane upon the bed was blue-and-white patchwork—a piece of art in its way.
"Granny did it all herself before she got blind," Winifred explained. "It was for my mother; but my mother never came here, and so I got it."
She handed me a chair as she spoke,—a high-backed, stiff wooden one, evidently of rustic manufacture; and, mounting upon another chair, she reached to the top of a rude wardrobe, or press, which stood in the corner. Thence she brought down a deal box, which she placed carefully on the floor, seating herself on a low stool beside it.
"I'll give you three guesses what is in there," she said, looking up at me with her bright smile.
"Your three guesses remind me of Portia's three caskets," I answered.
Winifred shook her head slowly. Evidently her knowledge did not extend to Shakespeare.
"Portia's caskets sound pretty," she remarked; "but I don't know what they are."