“Let me help,” echoed Phronsie, getting up from the garret floor, and spatting her hands free from the dust, she ran to the corner, too, and the old trunk was soon dragged out and the lid with its great brass letters “S. H.” was thrown back.
“Now, you see, Polly,” said the minister’s wife, down on her knees before it, Polly and Phronsie crouched on either side, “this trunk was my great-grandfather’s, Stephen Hinsdale, and this is the reason why we keep so many old things in it. Just look!” She picked out one or two books whose leather backs flapped dismally. “They’re fairly worm-eaten,” she said, setting them on the floor.
“Oh, where are the worms?” exclaimed Polly, in great excitement, and picking up a book to examine it intently. “Oh, do show me, dear Mrs. Henderson,” she begged, Phronsie deserting her place to come around and look, too.
“Oh, you can’t see them,” said Mrs. Henderson, “not the worms,—but there are the marks they’ve made. Well, never mind now, Polly, put it down, for I want to show you the rest of the things. I’m going to clear out this whole trunk.” And she lifted out a red woollen cape very long and heavy, and all riddled with little holes.
“Now, only just look,” she exclaimed, in vexation, “the moths have nearly eaten this up, and I put camphor all round it. I do every spring.”
“Oh, oh,” cried Polly, in great distress.
“I want to wear it,” cried Phronsie. “I do.” And she held out both arms.
“Oh, you couldn’t wear it,” said the parson’s wife, with a little laugh; “it was for a big woman; my grandmother, Polly.”
“I want it,” said Phronsie, in a grieved little voice, and still holding her arms out straight.
“Oh, no, child.” Then Mrs. Henderson rested both hands on the edge of the trunk, the old red cape dropping to her lap.