the bold flourishes on the panel. “See? How it makes out letters?”
Selina peered closer. “Why, sure enough! This first one’s an S!”
Maartje was kneeling before the chest now. “Sure an S. For Sophia. It is a Holland bride’s chest. And here is K. And here is big D. It makes Sophia Kroon DeVries. It is anyways two hundred years. My mother she gave it to me when I was married, and her mother she gave it to her when she was married, and her mother gave it to her when she was married, and her”
“I should think so!” exclaimed Selina, rather meaninglessly; but stemming the torrent. “What's in it? Anything? There ought to be bride’s clothes in it, yellow with age.”
“It is!” cried Maartje Pool and gave a little bounce that imperilled the lamp.
“No! The two on their knees sat smiling at each other, wide-eyed, like schoolgirls. The pigtails, emboldened, had come tap-tapping nearer and were peering over the shoulders of the women before the chest.
“Here—wait.” Maartje Pool thrust the lamp into Selina’s hand, raised the lid of the chest, dived expertly into its depths amidst a great rustling of old newspapers and emerged red-faced with a Dutch basque and voluminous skirt of silk; an age-yellow cap whose wings, stiff with embroidery, stood out grandly on either side; a pair of wooden shoes, stained terra-cotta like the sails of the Vollendam fishing boats, and
