Ben was moved by the appearance of the parlour, by the silence, by the heavy odour, that oppressive odour present at funerals, in rooms where windows and shutters are seldom opened. Mrs. Lowell had made everything beautiful for Ma’s last day at home. She had brought all the best flowers from her garden and disposed of them about the room. Ben saw the white asters which Mrs. Lowell had piled upon Ma’s rocker and set at the head of the coffin; the “store flowers” brought by Undertaker Hopkins that she had placed upon the coffin-lid; the pitcher of cosmos beside the family Bible on the little stand in the window; the zinnias on the marble-topped table in the corner; the dahlias on the window-sills; the stray asters and cornflowers pinned to the curtains; the sweet alyssum twined around the picture wire of Ma’s daguerreotype—Mrs. Lowell had always been good to Ma.

Mrs. Lowell had brought chicken-broth and tidied up Ma’s room whenever Ma was sick. She had been a great help to Ma when Uncle George came home to die. Now Ma lay in her coffin, white, with her hands folded over her breast. Ma would have a fine funeral. Mrs. Lowell had seen to everything.

His daughters were not like Mrs. Lowell. They didn’t know how to make a room look pretty. Ben had hoped that Aggie and Josie would turn out differently, when they had been too young instead of too old to be married, and Ma had gone about the house singing. Now Ma was gone, and left all her pretties behind.

“Aggie! Josie!” Ben called to his daughters. “Ma loved her pretties. You can have ’em all. You divide ’em, I can’t.”

Aggie and Josie looked at each other. The pretties were theirs! What had got into Pa?

“Mis’ Lowell ought to get one,” added Ben. “She’s always been so good to Ma. The beads an’ locket, she might like that?”

“Now, Pa, you better go into the dinin’-room an’ lay down. You’re so tired.”

“Mis’ Lowell’s always been good to Ma,” Ben repeated.

“You’re so tired, Pa. Go lay down on the lounge.”

They watched him shuffle out of the room, and waited until they heard the springs of the lounge creak under his weight. They knew there were pretties in Ma’s bureau that Pa had forgotten about. They started up the stairs, treading carefully, and keeping close together. They reached Ma’s door. Aggie turned the door-knob with both hands and stepped softly into the room, with Josie close behind her. They left the door open so that they might hear Pa better. They opened the closet door, hesitated, looked in. There was Ma’s bureau. They tried the two top drawers. They were locked.

“The keys, Josie! Where be the keys?”

“Ma kept ’em rolled up in a stockin’.”

“We’ll find ’em.”

They opened the next drawer, filled with Ma’s “best” clothes—the Paisley shawl, Ma’s “best” silk dress, the dress of Henrietta cloth, the cashmere dress, Ma’s “best” muslin dress, and the red flannel skirt edged with lace knit out of red yarn.

Both pulled at the third drawer. It flew open. Balls of yarn—pink, green, red, yellow, blue, of various sizes, left over from many quiltings, rolled out upon the floor. They felt about for rolled-up stockings, in the cotton-batting, under the piles of aprons, between the folds of babies’ clothing.

“Them be ours, Aggie.”