There was nothing said as they knelt before it and opened the lid. Eliza had put everything away so that moths nor air could destroy it. She slowly removed the papers and covers and at last laid out all on the floor before them.
“This is what your mother wore—that day.”
Beth’s hands touched the plain black skirt, the belt and waist.
“I’ll speak plainly, Beth. It is better so, now. I do not wish you to raise any false hopes about who your parents were. I really think, child, that you are as well off, as far as material affairs are concerned, with me as with them. This is why I think so. Look at the underwear. It is coarse and very poorly made. I think your mother was a very good woman. I’m sure she was. She had a good face, and she was gentle with you; but I am quite sure that she was poor and not well educated. Here are the rings which were in the traveling bag. I think they are of some value—not much. I should say ten or twelve dollars.
“I wish you would always keep these until you find your own people. It may be years from now when I am gone. I have written the date and all the circumstances down in this little book, so that you may have it, if you need it.”
She began to fold the articles. She pinned each one close in its foldings of paper as carefully as though it were a most precious thing, and laid them away in the trunk.
“Permit me, madam, to present the roses.”
“Some day, we’ll know everything about who you are,” she said as they were about to leave the room. She tried to speak lightly but failed. Putting her arm about Beth’s shoulders and drawing her close to her, she continued, “But just now you are my own little girl, and I’m thankful for it.”
The scene was hard for them both. It was well that an interruption came. A knock was heard at the living-room door. Beth hurried downstairs.