The infinite pity of it stirred Rose to quick tears, but Isabel was unmoved. "Here's something else," she said.
She shook the dust from an old-fashioned daguerreotype case, then opened it. On the left side was a young soldier in uniform, full length—a dashing, handsome figure with one hand upon a drawn sword. Printed in faded gilt upon the dusty red satin that made up the other half of the case, the words were still distinct: "To Colonel Richard Kent, from his friend, Jean Bernard."
"Jean Bernard!" Isabel repeated, curiously. "Who was he?"
"Aunt Francesca's husband," answered Rose, with a little catch in her voice, "and my uncle. He died in the War."
"Oh," said Isabel, unmoved. "He was nice looking, wasn't he? Shall we take this to Aunt Francesca?"
"You forget that it isn't ours to take," Rose reminded her. "And, by the way, Isabel, you must never speak to Aunt Francesca of her husband. She cannot bear it."
"All right," assented the girl. "What is this?"
From the back of the drawer she took out a bronze medal, with a faded ribbon of red, white, and blue attached to it. She took it to the light, rubbed it with her handkerchief, and slowly made out the words: "Awarded to Colonel Richard Kent, for conspicuous bravery in action at Gettysburg."
"Put the things back," Rose suggested, gently. This tiny, secret drawer, Colonel Kent's holy of holies, symbolised and epitomised the best of a man's life. The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife, the picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that comprehended a world of love and anguish and bereavement—these were the hidden chambers of his heart.
Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer. "Do you suppose those are diamonds?"