the cabinet and brings out all the beauty, and the cat sleeps the sleep of a thousand years. When I was a child mother told me about the crystal cat, but I never thought I should see it.
"It is queer how these inanimate things bring me nearer to mother than any of the people. She told me, too, about the bronze turtle. But she never told me about father, or his family and friends. And I always thought it was strange. But now I know the reason. She couldn't talk about them—she cared too much.
"It is queer, too, the way I feel sometimes about Daddy, as if he were an unhappy little boy and I had to feel sorry for him. Perhaps, if mother could have felt that way, she might have stayed and let things work themselves out. Marriage is 'until death parts,' isn't it, Crispin? Oh, I am not blaming Mother, but I am sure that Daddy wanted her to stay."
Hildegarde had been sure when her father gave her the lacquer cabinet. They were alone in the library, and he said:
"There are some things in the drawers that were your mother's. I have always carried the key on my ring, but I have never had the courage to open it. You may, if you wish."
He gave her the key, and she knelt before the lovely cabinet and opened it, pulling out the little drawers. And the things she found were a bunch of faded violets, little packages of letters, some old photographs.
And her father, standing beside her, said: "I remember when your mother knelt there, so pleased with it all—and her hair lighted this dark room with gold
