"Girls are fools," she ruminated. "When I shut that chest I was a girl. I vowed to myself I'd never open it again. I thought it was the coffin in which my happiness was buried. Well, I haven't opened it. My granddaughter has opened it. Rather a joke, when one thinks of it! Dear, dear, how it all comes back! The anger, the disappointment, the——" her voice grew vague. She pulled herself up sharply. "Before you replace that mull, child, if you'd like enough for a frock, you can have it. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'Twas a fool-girl vow, anyway, made in passion—a lifetime ago.... They're decking themselves out in lank draperies now, so you'll be in the style, Katherine. This mull is better and costlier than most of the shoddy silks the shoddy people are wearing these days. It will prove you are no nouveau riche. You don't know what nouveau riche means, do you, Slawson?"
Martha paused. "No'm. But I always thought I wouldn't mind bein' the nouveau, whatever it is, if I just had a try at the riche."
Madam Crewe drew down her lips in what Mrs. Slawson had grown to call her "Foxy gran'ma" expression. She turned again to Katherine. "I'll give you a fichu to wear with the mull. A French thing, handworked, trimmed with Mechlin, rather good Mechlin, as it happens. I never wore it. 'Twas too large. Swallowed me up. But the long ends won't trail on you. There, there! Don't thank me. I hate sentimentality. And I've almost been sentimental myself—after sixty-eight years. I know you're pleased. I understand my sex. We're sirens, all of us, at heart—when we have any heart. I've not the slightest doubt, now, but if Slawson put on a pair of silk stockings and a lace petticoat, she'd feel as coquettish as any of us. No matter how plain we are, we all have the instincts of beautiful women. We're made that way.... Now close down the lid. See you turn the key all the way 'round. I recollect the lock is tricky. Slawson, help Miss Katherine carry the chest back where it came from. Put it away where you found it, and be sure to fasten the trunk-room door, and bolt it securely. And, Slawson, you needn't come back here, when you've done. Just take your acrow bobbinet, and march home to your husband and children, where you belong. I'm tired."
Something "Slawson" could not have analyzed kept her silent after she and Miss Crewe left the room. Katherine was singularly mute. Martha had waved the girl aside, and, grappling with the chest single-handed, triumphantly had carried it off, the little madam watching the performance covertly, with eyes glistening appreciation.
Her feat successfully accomplished, Martha went her way, clasping her precious bundle. She was home before she was aware. Sam met her at the door, his face revealing, to her who knew it, a secret delight.
"I'm to go to the city next week, mother. So, pack your bag and get ready for your wedding-tour," he greeted her with sober fun.
"Have you told Ma and the childern?"
"No. I thought you'd better."
"Good. No hurry. Time enough later. I hope Ma won't kick. It'll mean some work for her, while I'm gone—if she does it, but nothing she can't reel off easy enough, if her spirit is willin'. I got a present, Sam. From the ol' lady."
"Yes, I know. The cow."