Primula Brandybuck Baggins was burned into the top of the old chest. One last time Frodo opened it, went through the contents, handling each tiny garment his mother had designed, woven, embroidered, worked with hooks or needles or lace bobbins: blankets, shirts, gowns, caps, tiny mittens....
His mother had called it her hope chest, and in it she had placed the items she had crafted for each of the children she’d conceived.
Four times her hopes had been dashed, and he would leave no children of his own. He smiled. These would nevertheless clothe the children of his hope.
“Sam!”