These appeared from the trunk even before she hung away
her clothes in the unplastered closet where the cold wind
searched through the cracks from out-of-doors. Into that closet,
away back in the corner, went a long pasteboard box, tied
carefully with strong cord. Nan patted it gently with her hand
before she left the box, whispering:
"You dear! I wouldn't have left you behind for anything! I
won't let them know you are here; but sometimes, when I'm sure
nobody will interrupt, you shall come out."
She spread a fringed towel over the barren top of the dresser.
It would not cover it all, of course; but it made an island in a
sea of emptiness.
And on the island she quickly set forth the plain little toilet-
set her mother had given her on her last birthday, the manicure
set that was a present from Papa Sherwood, and the several other
knickknacks that would help to make the big dresser look as
though "there was somebody at home," as she whispered to herself.
She draped a scarf here, hung up a pretty silk bag there, placed
Momsey's and Papa Sherwood's portraits in their little silver
filigree easels on the mantelpiece, flanking the clock that would
not run and which was held by the ugly china shepherdess with
only one foot and a broken crook, the latter ornament evidently
having been at one time prized by the babies of her aunt's
family, for the ring at the top was dented by little teeth.
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