At last we had emptied out the great box that held all
these little cases of morocco and plush, and putting them back one by
one, I turned the tiny key in its tiny lock, and opening my trunk
lodged it safely inside. Hortense was sitting beside me still, pouring
out a volley of impulsive praise upon what I had just shown her, and
as I raised the lid of my trunk, with the privilege of an intimate
friend she leaned over and peeped curiously in.
"What is in that red case there Amey?" she asked half timidly, then
looking apologetically into my face added: "You see my curiosity is
not satisfied yet."
"That is my ivory-covered prayer-book I told you of," said I, drawing
it from its seclusion and laying it in her lap. "I seldom use it, it
is too showy."
"It is very handsome" she muttered under her breath. "From your
father," she continued, speaking to herself, "a Christmas gift. How
lovely!"
She put it gently back in its padded holder, and returned it to me.
Then peeping into the open trunk once more she said
"Don't be cross, old woman, I want to know all your things, so that I
could recognize them any where again. I like them, chiefly because
they belong to you. What is in that Japanese box over there?"
"Oh, that is not worth showing you," I said, with a smile of ridicule.
"I keep all my odds and ends there, broken and old-fashioned trinkets.
It is a very uninteresting heap, I assure you."
"I don't care," she persisted obstinately.
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