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Updated: June 17, 2025
"I would never wear them, Aunt Winnifred. I should feel like a ghost if I did. Put everything back just as we found it only her portrait. I would like to keep that." Reverently we put gowns and letters and trinkets back into the old blue chest. Aunt Winnifred closed the lid and turned the key softly.
It was one of my dearest delights to attend Grandmother in her peregrinations and watch the unfolding and examining of all those old treasures and heirlooms of bygone Laurances. Of Aunt Winnifred I was less in awe, possibly because she dressed in a modern way and so looked to my small eyes more human and natural.
"You shall yet be mine!" he hissed in Winnifred's ear, and, releasing his grasp, he rushed with a bound past the rescuer into the street. "Oh, sir," said Winnifred, clasping her hands and falling on her knees in gratitude.
"Well," said Arthur, as he uncurled his leg, and with a half sigh, as if it were pleasanter to tell old legends of love than to paint modern portraits. "Is that the whole?" "That is the whole." "Well; but Arthur, did she marry him after all?" Arthur looked wistfully a moment at his aunt. "Marry him! Bless you, no, Aunt Winnifred. She was a goddess. Goddesses don't marry."
Self-praise is no honour, of course, and I ought to be silent with regard to my various perfections and imperfections; but if you wait patiently you will find out that Winnifred Blake is a most eccentric character, and says and does what no other person would say or do."
"Her answer is just what I expected of her," said Grandmother impatiently. "Evidently the years have not made her more sensible. Well, I wash my hands of her belongings, moths or no moths." It was not until ten years afterwards that I heard anything more of the old chest. Grandmother Laurance had died, but Aunt Winnifred still lived at the Grange.
"Nay," cried Winnifred, turning to confront the masked faces that stood about her, "go forward with your fell design. I am here. I am helpless. Let no prayers stay your hand. Go to it." "Have done with this!" cried Wynchgate, with a brutal oath. "Shove her in the coach."
I was sitting there one day when Aunt Winnifred and Grandmother Laurance came up the narrow dark staircase, the latter jingling her keys and peering into the dusty corners as she came along the room. When they came to the old chest, Grandmother rapped the top smartly with her keys. "I wonder what is in this old chest," she said. "I believe it really should be opened.
"I would know her writing anywhere none of your modern sprawly, untidy hands, but a fine lady-like script, as regular as copperplate. Read the letter, Winnifred; I haven't my glasses and I dare say Eliza's rhapsodies would tire me very much. You need not read them aloud I can imagine them all. Let me know what she says about the chest."
"My lords, for I divine who you are and wherefore you have come, take me, do your worst with me, but spare, oh, spare this humble companion of my sorrow." "Right-oh!" said Lord Dogwood, with a brutal laugh. "Enough," exclaimed Wynchgate, and seizing Winnifred by the waist, he dragged her forth out of the house and out upon the street.
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