Matthew's mind was racing as he made his way up the stairs and towards his own bedroom. He had in mind what the lad could wear, although he was unsure whether Marilla would approve, or think that he had lost his mind.

Shutting the bedroom door behind himself, as silently as he could, Matthew made his way to his closet and pulled a large wooden chest from the floor, which was pushed right back against the wall, and mostly hidden by pairs of pants and jackets.

He knew Marilla had a similar box of items from her youth, and he had never thought it right to look through her chest, as he knew she would have never dreamed of looking through his.

The clasps on the chest were stiff with age and lack of use. With considerable effort, Matthew was able to flick them open and lift the lid. The hinges at the back gave a loud squeak, and Matthew attempted to make a mental note to oil them when he next got a moment.

Settling himself on the floor as best he could (sitting on the ground was something he rarely did at his age), he pulled the chest still further forward and began to examine the contents.

On the top were a few books. Their leather covers cracked and darkened with age. Matthew smiled to himself as he read the title 'St Irvyne', a book which has been his favourite, and he opened the front cover.

To my dearest brother Matthew,

On the occasion of your tenth birthday. October 27th 1810.

Your loving brother,

Michael.

Matthew ran his finger lightly over the name 'Michael'. Slowly tracing the letters as if he were writing them himself. He remembered the day he was given this book. Michael, just two years older, had been so pleased to present his younger brother with a gift. Matthew remembered Michael bouncing into the room, the book was tucked under his arm and wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. He had burst into tears of excitement, as he'd watched Matthew, who was slowly stuttering through reading the inscription, awkward, and feeling painfully embarrassed.

Matthew carefully closed the book and laid it to one side. Then his eye was drawn to another book in the chest. One that was even older. To begin with, this book hadn't even been his. It had been both Michael's and Marilla's, before it was his.

When Matthew opened the book and read the inscription, it still made him smile. He recognised the slow, careful handwriting of his father. His father, who hated and struggled so much with writing... To have written anything for his child, would have shown them so much love. It was full of spelling errors, but the meaning and the love was still there.

To my deer Marilla,

I hope fis book is help-full to you in yor studees.

With all my lov,

Yor defoted Father.

Matthew held the book for a long moment, just looking at the inscription. It was a rare thing, to have something written by his father, that he wanted to hold it just a minute more.

Unconsciously, he found himself flicking through the dry, brittle pages. The book was a simple one, just page after page of exercises to help a child to learn their letters. Some of the pages were marked by pencil, as one child or another had attempted to follow the lessons on the page.

Matthew could easily tell which exercises had been completed by his two older siblings. They were uniform in style and neatness. He was also able to tell which tasks he had worked on. There were very few, because writing had been such a trial to him as a child. But those that were there were large, scrawling and riddled with errors. The contrast between the penmanship of the three Cuthbert children was staggering.

With a sense of his old anxieties creeping back, summoned both by the scenes in the school room, and the exercise book, Matthew put the book aside and continued to feel through the box. He knew what it was he wanted, and he would know it when his hand fell upon it.

Sure enough, after a moment or two of rummaging, Matthew's hand fell onto a cool, soft fabric. He took a better hold, and pulled it up through the layers and out of the chest.

It was an old, thick men's work shirt, and it was ridiculously large. There was a faint checked pattern of blue squares, with large white buttons down the front. It had belonged to Matthew's father, and it had been the shirt he had met his future wife in for the first time.

He had rarely been a sentimental man, but this shirt was his one nod to what his wife meant to him. And so, for all the rest of his life, he had kept this shirt and often told the children of its significance. Often with his wife, the children's mother, standing over his shoulder with a slight smile, and calling him "a silly old romantic."

After he had died, Matthew had taken the shirt from his room, and placed it in his chest. No one else in the family ever commented, or asked its location, so Matthew had never shared it. In later years, he had worn it a few times, but it was far too large, even for him. And each time he'd worn it, Marilla had called him a fool.

This would be the perfect item for Gilbert to wear during his recovery. It would be more than long enough to act like a night shirt on him. The fabric was worn and soft enough not to aggravate or compress his injuries, and the thickness of it would keep him warm at night.

Matthew folded the shirt and placed it to one side. He carefully repacked the books and closed the lid of the chest, before pushing it far back, into the dark recesses of his closet.

Awkwardly levering himself from the ground, Matthew stood, picked up the shirt, and left the room.

IN THE NEXT CHAPTER:

The story jumps back a couple of hours to see WHY Matthew was at the school house, and what caused him to come to Gilbert's defense.