as she to live in the future with the
knowledge that her father's memory was, as she felt, profaned? But at
least she had got his treasures.

She relocked the two tin boxes, and, stowing them carefully away in
her own trunk, transferred the keys from her mother's bunch to her
own, and brought her mother's keys back to Mrs. Howland.

"Have you looked at them? Are they worth anything, Maggie?"

"Memories mostly," said Maggie evasively.

"Oh, then," said Mrs. Howland, "I am glad you have them; for I hate
memories."

"Mother," said Maggie, and she went on her knees to her parent, "you
have really given them to me?"

"Well, of course, child. Didn't I say so? I don't want them. I haven't
looked at the things for years."

"I wonder, mums, if you would write something on a piece of paper for
me."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Mrs. Howland. "Mr. Martin doesn't approve of
what he calls documents."

"Darling mother, you're not Mr. Martin's wife yet. I want you to put
on paper that you have given me father's curios. He always meant them
for me, didn't he?"

"He did! he did!" said Mrs. Howland. "One of the very last things he
said--in his letter, I mean, for you know he died in Africa--was:
'The treasures I am sending home will be appreciated by my little
girl.'"

"Oh mother! yes, and they are. Please, mother, write something on this
bit of paper."

"My head is so weak. I haven't an idea what to say."

"I'll dictate it to you, if I may."

"Very well, child; I suppose I can't prevent you."

Maggie brought paper, blotting-pad, and pen, and Mrs. Howland
presently wrote: "I have given, on the eve of my marriage to Mr.
Martin, her father's treasures to my daughter, Margaret Howland."

"Thank you, mother," said Maggie.

The date was affixed. Mrs. Howland added the name she was so soon to
resign, and Maggie almost skipped into the bedroom.

"It's all right now," she said to herself.

She unlocked her trunk, also unlocking one of the tin boxes. In the
box which contained the twelve bracelets she put the piece of paper in
her mother's handwriting. She then relocked the box, relocked the
trunk, and came back to her mother, restored to perfect good-humor.

Maggie was in her element when she was planning things. Yesterday was
a day of despair, but to-day was a day of hope. She sat down by her
mother's desk and wrote a long letter to Molly Tristram, in which she
told Molly that her mother was about to be married again to a