"What is this?"
From the back of the drawer she took out a bronze medal, with a faded
ribbon of red, white, and blue attached to it. She took it to the light,
rubbed it with her handkerchief, and slowly made out the words: "Awarded
to Colonel Richard Kent, for conspicuous bravery in action at
Gettysburg."
"Put the things back," Rose suggested, gently. This tiny, secret drawer,
Colonel Kent's holy of holies, symbolised and epitomised the best of a
man's life. The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife,
the picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that
comprehended a world of love and anguish and bereavement--these were the
hidden chambers of his heart.
Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer. "Do you
suppose those are diamonds?"
"No; only brilliants."
"I thought so. If they'd been diamonds, he would never have left them
here."
"On the contrary," answered Rose, "I'm very sure he would." She had met
Colonel Kent only a few times, years ago, during the Summer he had spent
at home while Allison was still abroad, but she knew him now,
nevertheless.
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