Sunny looked over her shoulder and saw a photograph of a stiff little boy in stiff velvet skirt and jacket, standing by a table, one small hand resting solemnly on a book.
“He doesn’t look comfy,” objected Sunny. “Is it really Daddy? And did little boys wear petticoats then, Mother?”
“That isn’t a petticoat, it is a kilt,” explained Mother. “You know what kilts are, dear—you’ve seen the Scotch soldiers wear them. Well, when Daddy was a little boy they wore kilts, and trousers underneath. And Grandma was telling me this morning that as soon as Daddy was out of her sight he would take off his kilt and go about in his blouse and trousers. So probably he considered the kilt a petticoat just as you do.”
Sunny wandered over to another trunk that stood open and poked an inquiring hand down into its depths.
“What’s this, Mother?” he asked, holding up a queer, square little cap.
“Be careful, precious, that is Grandpa’s Civil War trunk,” warned Mother, coming over to him. “Grandmother meant to put the things out to air to-day and then it rained. See, dear, this is the cap he wore, and the old blue coat, and this is his knapsack. Some day you must ask Grandpa to come up here with you and tell you war stories.”
“Where’s his sword?” asked Sunny, fingering the cap with interest. “Where was Daddy then? Was Grandpa shot?”
“Grandpa didn’t have a sword, because he wasn’t an officer,” explained Mother. “He was only a boy when he enlisted, and it was long before there was any Daddy, dear. And Grandpa was wounded—I’m sure I’ve told you that before—don’t you remember? That’s how he met Grandma. She was a little girl and met him in the hospital where her father, who was a physician, was attending Grandpa.”
“Olive! Sunny! Dinner’s ready!” It was Grandma standing at the foot of the stairs and calling them.
“I forgot to tell you,” said Sunny hastily. “Dinner will be on the table in half an hour, Grandma said.”