piano; it was decidedly not worth while doing nothing. But there was a cupboard underneath the front stairs, which Aunt Cathie had said "wanted" cleaning out. Lucia had deliberately hoarded up that piece of employment, but she thought she might as well use it now.
The cupboard certainly did "want" to be cleaned out. A net of spider's web had been spun over the door, and from inside came a damp, mildewy odour. On the top of a miscellaneous heap of papers and débris was a cardboard box, oblong; and, opening it, Lucia found it to contain a dozen lawn-tennis balls. Moths had eaten into their covers, but beyond doubt it was the box of balls that Aunt Cathie had once bought for her birthday present.
Lucia remembered it all—remembered, too, the games of lawn-tennis, how Aunt Cathie used to throw up ball after ball, and fail to hit them altogether. These were they—moth-eaten now, mouldy.
THE END
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
