The room seemed as empty as his life. There was nothing for
his eyes to rest upon but those bundles and bundles of dust-browned
papers on the shelves before him. What were they all about? He
understood that they were his father's: now that he was dead, it
would be no sacrilege to look at them. Nobody cared about them. He
would see at least what they were. It would be something to do in
this dreariness.
Bills and receipts, and everything ephemeral--to feel the interest
of which, a man must be a poet indeed--was all that met his view.
Bundle after bundle he tried, with no better success. But as he
drew near the middle of the second shelf, upon which they lay
several rows deep, he saw something dark behind, hurriedly displaced
the packets between, and drew forth a small workbox. His heart beat
like that of the prince in the fairy-tale, when he comes to the door
of the Sleeping Beauty. This at least must have been hers. It was
a common little thing, probably a childish possession, and kept to
hold trifles worth more than they looked to be. He opened it with
bated breath. The first thing he saw was a half-finished reel of
cotton--a pirn, he called it. Beside it was a gold thimble. He
lifted the tray. A lovely face in miniature, with dark hair and
blue eyes, lay looking earnestly upward. At the lid of this coffin
those eyes had looked for so many years! The picture was set all
round with pearls in an oval ring.
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