ine
uppon the Front Peece, but I put French Chalks to it, and now the Spotte
may hardly be Seen."

"Oh," sighed Margaret, "how enchanting! how perfectly delightful! Are
they all marked, Aunt Faith?"

"Not all, but a good many of them. See! Here is something on this
sea-green cloak; notice the sleeves, Rita: they are something in the
Spanish style, as it was in my youth. Let us see what is written here,
for I forget."

They bent over the yellow writing; in this case it was pinned on the
hanging sleeve, and read as follows: "This Cloak, with the flowered
satin Gown, was worn by me, Henrietta Montfort, the last time I went to
a worldly Assemblage. I lay them away, having entered upon a Life of
Retirement and Meditation since the Death of my deere Husband. Mem. The
Cloake was lined with Sabels, which I have removed, lest Moth and Rust
do corrupt, and have made them into Muffs for the Poor."

"I believe she became a great saint," said Mrs. Cheriton, "and a very
severe one. I have heard that in the coldest winter weather she would
not let her servants build fires on Sunday because she did not consider
it a necessary work. There is a story that one bitter cold Sunday some
one came to call, and found the whole family in bed, servants and all,
trying to keep warm. I know they never had any warm victuals on that
day."

"How pleasant to live now," said Margaret, "instead of then! Aren't you
glad, girls?"

"My faith!" said Rita, "I would have made a fire with the house, and
burned her in it; then I should have been warm. But what is this, Aunt
Faith? If I am truly to call you so, yes? What horror is this? Look at
the beautiful satin, all destroyed! Cut!--it is cut with knives,
Marguerite! Look!"

Janet held up a white satin gown, of quaint and graceful fashion. Sure
enough, it was cut and slashed in every direction, the sleeves hanging
in ribbons, the skirt slit and gashed down its entire length. Mrs.
Cheriton shook her head in answer to the girls' looks of amazement and
inquiry.

"I am sorry you saw that, Rita!" she said. "It recalls a sad story,
which might better be forgotten. However--well, that gown belonged to my
poor Aunt Penelope. She was a beautiful girl, but headstrong, and she
married, against her parents' wishes, a handsome, good-for-nothing man,
who made her desperately unhappy, and finally left her. She lost her
mind, poor soul, from sorrow and suffering. When her father brought her
home to Fernley, she to