At seven Rachel stood in her room, fully dressed and alone. She
had no bridesmaid, and she had asked her cousins to leave her to
herself in this last solemn hour of girlhood. She looked very
fair and sweet in the sunset-light that showered through the
birches. Her wedding gown was a fine, sheer organdie, simply and
daintily made. In the loose waves of her bright hair she wore
her bridegroom's flowers, roses as white as a virgin's dream.
She was very happy; but her happiness was faintly threaded with
the sorrow inseparable from all change.

Presently her mother came in, carrying a small basket.

"Here is something for you, Rachel. One of the boys from the
harbor brought it up. He was bound to give it into your own
hands--said that was his orders. I just took it and sent him to
the right-about--told him I'd give it to you at once, and that
that was all that was necessary."

She spoke coldly. She knew quite well who had sent the basket,
and she resented it; but her resentment was not quite strong
enough to overcome her curiosity. She stood silently by while
Rachel unpacked the basket.

Rachel's hands trembled as she took off the cover. Two huge
pink-spotted shells came first. How well she remembered them!
Beneath them, carefully wrapped up in a square of foreign-looking,
strangely scented silk, was the dragon teapot. She held it in her
hands and gazed at it with tears gathering thickly in her eyes.

"Your father sent that," said Isabella Spencer with an odd sound