te starchy
things, and ornamented with bright (but inexpensive) nothings. In this
wonderful bedroom there is a secret and sacred drawer into which, once
in her life, Harriet had a glimpse. It contains the clothes, all gently
folded, exhaling an odour of lavender, in which our friend will appear
when she has closed her eyes to open them no more upon this earth. In
such calm readiness she awaits her time.

Upon the bureau in this sacred apartment stands a small rosewood box,
which is locked, into which no one in our neighbourhood has had so much
as a single peep. I should not dare, of course, to speculate upon its
contents; perhaps an old letter or two, "a ring and a rose," a ribbon
that is more than a ribbon, a picture that is more than art. Who can
tell? As I passed that way I fancied I could distinguish a faint,
mysterious odour which I associated with the rosewood box: an
old-fashioned odour composed of many simples.

On the stand near the head of the bed and close to the candlestick is a
Bible--a little, familiar, daily Bible, very different indeed from the
portentous and imposing family Bible which reposes on the centre-table
in the front room, which is never opened except to record a death. It
has been well worn, this small nightly Bible, by much handling. Is
there a care or a trouble in this world, here is the sure talisman. She
seeks (and finds) the inspired text. Wherever she opens the book she
seizes the first words her eyes fall upon as a prophetic message to her.
Then she goes forth like some David with his sling, so panoplied with
courage that she is daunted by no Goliath of the Philistines. Also she
has a worshipfulness of all ministers. Sometimes when the Scotch
Preacher comes to tea and remarks that her pudding is good, I firmly
believe that she interprets the words into a spiritual message for her.

Besides the drawer, the rosewood box, and the worn Bible, there is a
certain Black Cape. Far be it from me to attempt a description, but I
can say with some assurance that it also occupies a shrine. It may not
be in the inner sanctuary, but it certainly occupies a goodly part of
the outer porch of the temple. All this, of course, is figurative, for
the cape hangs just inside the closet door on a hanger, with a white
cloth over the shoulders to keep off the dust. For the vanities of the
world enter even such a sanctuary as this. I wish, indeed, that you
could see Miss Aiken wearing her cape on a Sunday in th