They went up to her room where two trunks yawned open.
Under her directions and with her help he took out the light summer things and replaced them with heavier gowns, stout shoes, golf-capes, and caps.
"We'll be up on the Bitter Root ranch this summer, and you'll need heavy things," he had told her.
Sometimes he packed clumsily, and she was obliged to do his work over. In these intervals he studied with interest the big old room and her quaint old sampler worked in coloured worsteds that had faded to greys and dull browns: "La Nuit Porte Conseil."
"Grandma Loekermann did it at the convent, ages ago," she told him.
"What a cautious young thing she must have been!"
She leaned against his shoulder.
"But she eloped with her true love, young Annekje Van Schoule; left the home in Hickory Street one night, and went far away, away up beyond One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, somewhere, and then wrote them about it."
"And left the sampler?"
"She had her husband—she didn't need any old sampler after that—Le mariage porte conseil, aussi, monsieur. And now, you've married your wife with her wedding-ring, that came from Holland years and years ago."