When she returned the girl seemed herself again.  She took the tea-tray and kissed the bearer with a fervour born of remorse.  “I am a Pig,” she declared, “and you are a darling!  Never mind, we’ll even up some day.”

“When you have had your tea, Esther, I’ve got a letter I want you to read.”

“A letter?  Who from?  I mean, from whom?  Gracious!  I’ll have to be more careful of the King’s English, now that I’m a school teacher.”

“I don’t know.  It is signed just ‘H’ and it’s written to ‘Dearest wife.’  You don’t know who that could be, do you?”

“Mother, perhaps?”

“No.  It’s not in your father’s writing and his name did not begin with ‘H.’”

“Where did you find it, dear?”

“Up in an old trunk of your grandma’s—­I mean of Mary’s mother’s.  One of the trunks that were sent here after she died.  Mary asked me to put moth balls in it.  This letter was all crushed up in a corner.  I took it out to smooth it, because I knew it was a love letter.  You don’t think any one would mind?”

“N—­o.”  Esther, who knew Aunt Amy’s feeling about love letters, could not find it in her heart to disagree.  “I think we may fairly call it treasure-trove.  It’s only a note anyway.”  Her eyes ran swiftly over the two short paragraphs upon the open sheet.

“Dearest wife:—­

“At last I can call you ‘wife’ without fear.  Our waiting is over.  Brave girl!  If it has been as long to you as to me, you have been brave indeed.  But it is our day now.  Even your mother cannot object any longer.  I am coming for you to-morrow.  Only one more day!

“Dear, I think that in my wild impatience I did you wrong.  But love does not blame love.  No wife shall ever be so loved as you.  May God forget me if I forget what you have done for me....”

“What a strange letter!” Esther looked up wonderingly.

“Is that all, Esther?” Aunt Amy’s face was vaguely disappointed.  “The one I read was much longer than that.”

“That is all that is written here, Auntie.  But it is a beautiful letter.  They had been separated, you see, and she had been brave and waited.  One can imagine—­”

The click of the garden gate interrupted her.

“Here’s your mother,” said Aunt Amy, in a flurried tone.  “Don’t let her—­”

“Is that the mail, Esther?” Mrs. Coombe’s high voice held a fretful intonation.  Aunt Amy seized the letter and hid it in her dress.  “She shan’t see it,” she whispered childishly.

“Is that the mail?” repeated Mrs. Coombe, coming up the walk.

“No, there is no mail,” said Esther, “No one has been to the post office.  Perhaps Jane had better run down now.”

“But you had a letter,” suspiciously.  “I’m sure I saw it.  Where is it?”

“Don’t be absurd, mother.  I have no letter.  Nor would I think it necessary to show it to you if I had.  I am not a child.”

“You are a child.  And let me tell you, a clandestine correspondence is something which I shall not tolerate.  Let me see the letter.”