“Shall I go and help Ruth find them?”
“Yes,” she said, “help—letters.”
Together, they broke open the lock of the chest, while Miss Ainslie was calling, faintly: “Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you!”
“We'd better turn the whole thing out on the floor,” he said, suiting the action to the word, then put it back against the wall, empty. “We'll have to shake everything out, carefully,” returned Ruth, “that's the only way to find them.”
Wrapped carefully in a fine linen sheet, was Miss Ainslie's wedding gown, of heavy white satin, trimmed simply with priceless Venetian point. They shook it out hurriedly and put it back into the chest. There were yards upon yards of lavender taffeta, cut into dress lengths, which they folded up and put away. Three strings of amethysts and two of pearls slipped out of the silk as they lifted it, and there was another length of lustrous white taffeta, which had changed to an ivory tint.
Four shawls of Canton crepe, three of them lavender and one ivory white, were put back into the chest. There were several fans, of fine workmanship, a girdle of oxidized silver, set with amethysts and pearls, and a large marquetry box, which contained tea. “That's all the large things,” he said; “now we can look these over.”
Ruth was gathering up great quantities of lace—Brussels, Point d'Alencon, Cluny, Mechlin, Valenciennes, Duchesse and Venetian point. There was a bridal veil of the Venetian lace, evidently made to match that on the gown. Tiny, dried petals rustled out of the meshes, for Miss Ainslie's laces were laid away in lavender, like her love.
“I don't see them,” she said, “yes, here they are.” She gave him a bundle of yellowed letters, tied with lavender ribbon. “I'll take them to her,” he answered, picking up a small black case that lay on the floor, and opening it. “Why, Ruth!” he gasped. “It's my father's picture!”
Miss Ainslie's voice rose again in pitiful cadence. “Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you—oh, I want you!”
He hastened to her, leaving the picture in Ruth's hand. It was an ambrotype, set into a case lined with purple velvet. The face was that of a young man, not more than twenty-five or thirty, who looked strangely like Winfield. The eyes, forehead and the poise of the head were the same.