his usual morning walk, which her coming had interrupted. The
telephone bell rang just as she entered the door, so Lloyd ran up-stairs
to her own room, knowing that her mother would be busy for a few minutes
with giving the daily household orders. Lloyd's own ordering had been
done nearly an hour, for Rob's business necessitated an early breakfast
to enable him to catch the eight o'clock car into the city. He did not
return until six, so she could stay away from home any day she chose,
with a clear conscience. She took her housekeeping seriously, however,
and had turned out to be a most capable and thorough-going little
housekeeper, but with experienced servants who had taken charge of
Oaklea for years her cares were not heavy.

Her room had been kept for her, just as she had used it, all through her
girlhood, and Mom Beck put fresh flowers in it every day. Lloyd always
darted in for a quick look around, even when she came for only a short
while. There was a glass bowl of pink hyacinths on her desk this
morning, and she sat down to make a list of several things which she
wanted to suggest for the coming event. Presently there was a rustle of
stiffly starched skirts in the hall, and she looked up to see Mom Beck
in the doorway. The old black face was beaming as she called: "How's my
honey chile this mawnin'?" Then without waiting for an answer, she
added, "Miss Betty said to tell you she's up in the attic rummagin', and
wants you to come up right away."

Passing on down the hall, Lloyd paused beside her mother, who sat with
telephone receiver to her ear, long enough to seize her in an
overwhelming embrace that muffled the conversation for an instant, then
hurried up the attic stairs to find her old playmate. The little dormer
windows were all thrown open, and the morning sun streamed in across the
motley collection of chests, old furniture and the attic treasures of
several generations.

On a camp-stool in front of a little old leather trunk, sat Betty. It
was the same shabby trunk that had held all her earthly possessions when
she left the Cuckoo's Nest years before, and she was packing it with
some of those same keepsakes to take with her on her wedding journey to
her new home in the far West. A bright bandanna was knotted into a cap
to cover her curly brown hair, and a long gingham apron protected her
morning dress from the attic dust.

Somehow, as she sat over the old trunk, carefully folding away the
relics of h