“Papers,” she whispered. “Probably important papers; deeds, stocks and bonds, perhaps.”
Imagine her surprise when, having drawn the papers out and partly unrolled them, she found them to be pictures.
“Pictures!” she exclaimed in disgust. “And only printed pictures at that.”
“But such wonderful pictures!” exclaimed Meg, holding one out to view.
It was indeed a wonderful picture, one of those vague, misty things that came out of the great war. This one was of a smoke clouded cannon in the foreground, belching black smoke and fire, and in the midst of the smoke, forming herself out of it, a most beautiful black-haired woman, her eyes burning, her hands clawing, leaping straight at the enemy.
“It is a wonderful picture,” said Florence when they had gazed at it in silence for a time. “But after all, it is only a print, and can’t be worth much. I still don’t see——”
“Tell you what,” Meg broke in, “let’s unroll them all and weight them down on the floor with books so we can have a good look.”
“Good idea,” said Florence, beginning to unroll one.
It was truly a remarkable collection of pictures which at length carpeted the floor. War pictures, all of them, and all displaying that strong spiritual interpretation which was so common in pictures of those times. A French airplane falling in flames and beneath it an angel waiting to bear away the soul of the brave aviator; the American flag drifting in the clouds and seen from afar by a French soldier in the trenches; such were the themes.
“Don’t you think they’re grand?” said Meg.