It was the casket of his dead wife's jewels.

Nevertheless, in his extremity he resolved to sell it now, and, taking the key, he went up to the room where he kept it--a closet that was sacred to the relics of her who lay in his heart for ever, but in his house no more.
Naomi went up with him, and when he had broken the seal from the doorpost, and the little door creaked back on its hinge, the ashy odour came out to them of a chamber long shut up.

It was just as if the buried air itself had fallen in death to dust, for the dust of the years lay on everything.

But under its dark mantle were soft silks and delicate shawls and gauzy haiks, and veils and embroidered sashes and light red slippers, and many dainty things such as women love.

And to him that came again after ten heavy years they were as a dream of her that had worn them when she was young that now was dead when she was beautiful that now was in the grave.
"Ah me, ah me! Ruth! My Ruth!" he murmured.