For each gift that
she looked upon had its history, and the days before this miserable
night had darkened on her happiness came one by one slowly back to her
as she looked. She determined to keep one thing which had belonged to
Harry Feversham,--a small thing, a thing of no value. At first she chose
a penknife, which he had once lent to her and she had forgotten to
return. But the next instant she dropped it and rather hurriedly. For
she was after all an Irish girl, and though she did not believe in
superstitions, where superstitions were concerned she preferred to be on
the safe side. She selected his photograph in the end and locked it away
in a drawer.
She gathered the rest of his presents together, packed them carefully in
a box, fastened the box, addressed it and carried it down to the hall,
that the servants might despatch it in the morning. Then coming back to
her room she took his letters, made a little pile of them on the hearth
and set them alight. They took some while to consume, but she waited,
sitting upright in her arm-chair while the flame crept from sheet to
sheet, discolouring the paper, blackening the writing like a stream of
ink, and leaving in the end only flakes of ashes like feathers, and
white flakes like white feathers.
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