"How very frivolous Great-grandmother Ponsonby must have been!" said Hildegarde. "I think Miss Agatha is rather hard on her, though. Perhaps the buttons were wedding presents. I wonder what has become of them all! See, Mammina, here are her red shoes—just like Beatrix Esmond's, aren't they? My foot would not begin to go into them. And here—oh! the lace! the lace!" For there was a whole drawer full of lace, all in little bundles neatly tied up and marked. Here was Madam Aytoun's wedding veil, Grandmother This One's Mechlin tabs, Aunt That One's Venetian flounces. It would take pages to describe all the laces, and the pleasure that mother and daughter had in examining them. What woman or girl does not love lace? Finally, in a corner of the drawer, was a morocco box containing a key, whose ivory label said: "Central compartment. Miniatures."
"This will be the best of all!" cried Hildegarde, eagerly. "Perhaps we shall find Great-grandmother Ponsonby herself. Who knows?"
The ivory door flew open as the key turned, and revealed a space set round with tiny drawers. Each drawer contained one or more miniatures, in cases of red or green morocco, and Hildegarde and her mother examined them with delight. Here, to be sure, was Great-grandmother Ponsonby; in fact, she appeared twice: first, as a splendid young matron, clad in the identical ruby velvet with the diamond buttons, her hair powdered high and adorned with feathers; and, again, as a not less superb old lady, with folds of snowy muslin under her chin, and keen dark eyes flashing from under her white curls, and a wonderful cap. Here was Grandfather Aytoun, first as a handsome boy, with great dark eyes, and a parrot on his hand, then as a somewhat choleric-looking gentleman with a great fur collar.
"How they do change!" said Hildegarde. "I am not sure that I like to see two of the same person. Let me see, now! He married—"
"The daughter of Great-grandmother Ponsonby," replied Mrs. Grahame. "Here she is! Caroline Regina Ponsonby, æt. 16. Named after the royal patroness, you see. What a sweet, gentle-looking girl! I fear her magnificent mother and her decided-looking husband may have been too much for her, for I see she died at twenty-three."
"Oh! and he married again!" cried Hildegarde, opening another case. "See here! Selina Euphemia McKenzie, second wife of John Aytoun. Oh! and here is a slip of paper inside the frame.
"'Sweet flower, that faded soon
In Rapture's fervid noon.
'J. A.'
"Dear me! he must have written it himself!" she added. "It is not like Miss Agatha's handwriting. Why, she only lived three months, poor dear! He makes very sure about the rapture, doesn't he?"
"I think he does," said her mother, smiling, "considering that he married a third time, inside a year from the fading of the sweet flower. Look at this aquiline dame, with the remarkably firm mouth, and the bird of paradise in her turban. 'Adelaide McLeod, third wife of John Aytoun. She survived him.' I'll warrant she did!" said Mrs. Grahame. "She carries conquest in her face. All the children were of the first marriage, and I fear she was not a gentle stepmother. I wonder who this may be!" She took up a heavy bracelet of dark hair, with a small miniature set in the clasp. "What a pretty, pretty child! Good Miss Agatha has surely not left us in the dark concerning him. 'Little John Hesketh, 1804.' That is all."
"Why Hesketh?" asked Hildegarde. "I have never heard of any Heskeths."