"How did _you_ know that?" he demanded.

"I saw it."

"You saw it!"

"Yesterday, yes--the dress," I nodded.

"But how _could_ you?" he asked, frowning, and looking so surprised.
"Why, that dress must be--seventeen years old, or more."

I nodded again, and I suppose I did look pleased: it's such fun to
have a secret, you know, and watch folks guess and wonder. And I kept
him guessing and wondering for quite a while. Then, of course, I told
him that it was upstairs in Grandfather's trunk-room; that Mother had
got it out, and I saw it.

"But, what--was your mother doing with that dress?" he asked then,
looking even more puzzled and mystified.

And then suddenly I thought and remembered that Mother was crying.
And, of course, she wouldn't want Father to know she was crying over
it--that dress she had worn when he first met her long ago! (I don't
think women ever want men to know such things, do you? I know I
shouldn't!) So I didn't tell. I just kind of tossed it off, and
mumbled something about her looking it over; and I was going to say
something else, but I saw that Father wasn't listening. He had begun
to talk again, softly, as if to himself.

"I suppose to-night, seeing you, and all this, brought it back to me