Charlotte had not shed a tear when she took them out of the chest and shook off the sprigs of lavender which she had laid over them; but it seemed to her that she could smell that faint elusive breath of lavender across the meeting-house when Sylvia came in, and the rustle of her bridal-gown was as loud in her ears as if she herself wore it.
"Somebody might just as well have them, and have some good of them," she had told her mother, and she spoke as if they were the garments of some one who was dead.
"Seems to me, as much as they cost, you'd ought to wear 'em yourself," said her mother.
"I never shall," Charlotte said, firmly; "and they might just as well do somebody some good." Charlotte's New England thrift and practical sense stretched her sentiment on the rack, and she never made a sound.
Barney, watching out from his window that Sunday, caught a flash of green and purple from Sylvia's silken skirt as she turned the corner of the old road with Richard.

"She's got on Charlotte's wedding-dress.

She's--given it to her," he said, with a gasp.

He had never forgotten it since the day Charlotte had shown it to him.

He had pictured her in it, hundreds of times, to his own delight and torment.