As she had half expected, the dresser was full of lingerie, of the finest lawn and linen. The dainty garments were edged with real lace—Brussels, Valenciennes, Mechlin, Point d'Alencon, and the fine Irish laces. Sometimes there was a cluster of tucks, daintily run by hand, but, usually, only the lace, unless there was a bit of insertion to match. The buttons were mother of pearl, and the button holes were exquisitely made. One or two of the garments were threaded with white ribbon, after a more modern fashion, but most of them were made according to the quaint old patterns. There was a dozen of everything.
The dried lavender flowers rustled faintly as Ruth reverently lifted the garments, giving out the long-stored sweetness of Summers gone by. The white had changed to an ivory tint, growing deeper every day. There were eleven night gowns, all made exactly alike, with high neck and long sleeves, trimmed with tucks and lace. Only one was in any way elaborate. The sleeves were short, evidently just above the elbow, and the neck was cut off the shoulders like a ball gown. A deep frill of Venetian point, with narrower lace at the sleeves, of the same pattern, was the only trimming, except a tiny bow of lavender ribbon at the fastening, pinned on with a little gold heart.
When Ruth went in, with one of the night gowns over her arm, a faint colour came into Miss Ainslie's cheeks.
“Did—did—you find those?” she asked.
“Yes,” answered Ruth, “I thought you'd like to wear them.”
Miss Ainslie's colour faded and it was some time before she spoke again.
“Did—did you find the other—the one with Venetian point?” “Yes, Miss Ainslie, do you want that one It's beautiful.”
“No,” she said, “not now, but I thought that I'd like to wear that—afterward, you know.”
A shadow crossed Ruth's face and her lips tightened.
“Don't, dear,” said Miss Ainslie, gently.