Her mother could not admire what was strange in pattern and dimmed by neglect; but Maggie, with her wider knowledge, knew well that she possessed great treasures, which, if possible, she would keep, but which, if necessary, she could sell for sums of money which would enable her to start in life according to her own ideas.
She put the twelve bracelets back into their case, and then, opening the second tin box, took from it many quaint curios, the value of which she had no means of ascertaining. There was a great deal of gold and silver, and queer beaten-work in brass, and there were pendants and long chains and brooches and queer ornaments of all kinds.
“Poor father!” thought the girl. She felt a lump in her throat—a choking sensation, which seemed to make her mother’s present conduct all the more intolerable. How was she to live in the future with the knowledge that her father’s memory was, as she felt, profaned? But at least she had got his treasures.
She relocked the two tin boxes, and, stowing them carefully away in her own trunk, transferred the keys from her mother’s bunch to her own, and brought her mother’s keys back to Mrs. Howland.
“Have you looked at them? Are they worth anything, Maggie?”
“Memories mostly,” said Maggie evasively.
“Oh, then,” said Mrs. Howland, “I am glad you have them; for I hate memories.”
“Mother,” said Maggie, and she went on her knees to her parent, “you have really given them to me?”
“Well, of course, child. Didn’t I say so? I don’t want them. I haven’t looked at the things for years.”
“I wonder, mums, if you would write something on a piece of paper for me.”