I declare I'm 'most
sick! What's in that pasteboard box?"
It was a shriveled object, black with long-dried mould.
"'Lemon held by Timothy Marden in his hand just before he died.' Aunt
Luceba," said Isabel, turning with a swift impulse, "I think aunt Eliza
was a horror!"
"Don't you say it, if you do think it," said her aunt, sinking into a
chair and rocking vigorously. "Le's git through with it as quick 's we
can. Ain't that a bandbox? Yes, that's great-aunt Isabel's leghorn
bunnit. You was named for her, you know. An' there's cousin Hattie's
cashmere shawl, an' Obed's spe'tacles. An' if there ain't old Mis'
Eaton's false front! Don't you read no more. I don't care what they're
marked. Move that box a mite. My soul! There's ma'am's checked apron I
bought her to the fair! Them are all her things down below." She got up
and walked to the window, looking into the chestnut branches, with
unseeing eyes. She turned about presently, and her cheeks were wet.
"There!" she said; "I guess we needn't look no more. Should you jest as
soon burn 'em?"
"Yes," answered Isabel. She was crying a little, too. "Of course I
will, auntie. I'll put 'em back now. But when you're gone, I'll do it;
perhaps not till Saturday, but I will then.
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