And then, appalled at the length of all the poem, at the volume of the mystery, she rolled the manuscript and put it away.

Again she dipped in the drawer, seeking the clue among the cherished fragments of her mother's hidden soul.
This time it was a small package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbon.

She opened it carefully, with the deep gravity and circumstance of a priest before an altar.

Appeared a little red-satin Spanish girdle, whale-boned like a tiny corset, pointed, the pioneer finery of a frontier woman who had crossed the plains.

It was hand-made after the California-Spanish model of forgotten days.