“And was this her very own?” asked Marie-Celeste, handling the mandolin with reverent touch—“the very one on which Richard taught her to play?”
“Yes,” said Miss Belmore; “and this pretty dress”—holding up the little short-waisted gown of lace and satin—“was the one she wore that day Richard took his last leave of her in the deanery of St. George's Chapel.”
“Only to think,” Marie-Celeste said solemnly, “that I should hold in my own hands things that belonged to the little Isabel! Mr. Belden never guessed when he told me all about her on the steamer such a wonder would come to pass. I wish he could know about it some day.”
“But who has kept all dese old tings so long, and how old are dey anyway?” asked more practical Albert, inspecting with curious, critical gaze a little necklace of hammered gold and silver which Miss Belmore had dropped into his lap as one of the few treasures his rather inquisitive touch would not damage.
“The keepers of the wardrobe, one after another, have cared for them carefully, Albert, for nearly five hundred years,” Miss Belmore explained; “and it is only by a special order from the Queen that they can ever be taken out of the precious chest where they are stored for a single moment, except twice a year or so, to be cleaned and brushed.”
“And did the Oueen give a special order for us to-day?” asked Marie-Celeste, more impressed than ever with the greatness of their privileges.
“Certainly, my dear.”
“Well, de Queen's a daisy too, den,” ventured Albert, who, alas! was no respecter of persons.
“Hush, Albert,” said Marie-Celeste, blushing, but very thankful that Miss Belmore and the Queen's mother seemed more amused than shocked; and then she added, amid deeper blushes, “Oh, will you please tell Her Majesty for me that I never could thank her enough, never?”