“Chloe came around the corner, throwing her apron over her head.  She looked up and down the way, as if in search of some one, went down the walk to the gate, looked as I had once seen her do at our house, taking it window by window, and finding no one, (the day seemed deserted,) she was walking back.  I called to her from the arbor.

“’I was just looking for you, Miss Lettie.  I’ve got a letter here.  Mistress is too sick to read it for me, and Master’s away.  Would you?’

“It was addressed to Chloe.  I broke the seal and opened it.  It seemed a long letter.  I gave a sigh at the task before me, and looked over to the end.  I saw the signature:  it was Bernard H. McKey.  After that I saw Chloe’s troubled black face written on my vision, and felt dripping drops about my head.

“’There, Miss Lettie, it’s all over, now.  I’s so glad you’re come to!  I won’t bother you with reading anymore letters.  It would have to be much good in it that ‘ud pay me for seeing you so.’

“I was sitting in the arbor a little later, alone, reading the letter.  Through the rending of the cup dew stole in; the mist was stifling.  Still’t was better than the death that reigned before.  The contents of my life were not poured out beyond the earth.  The thought gave me comfort.  It is so sad to feel the great gate shut down across the flame of your heart! to have the stilled waters set back, never more to join those that have escaped, gone on, to turn the wheel of Eternity!  In that hour it was joy enough for me to know that he lived, even if the life was for another.  I, too, had my bright portion in it.

“Chloe came back.  She had forgotten the letter, when she went in to Mrs. Percival.  She said ‘faintin’ must be good for me; she hadn’t seen me look so fine in a many days.’

“I told Chloe that the letter had been written to me, that it was not meant for her.  At first she did not comprehend; after that I felt sure that a perception of the truth dawned in her mind, she watched me so closely.

“I carried my letter home.  That night I compared the two,—­the one Abraham had found (where I knew not, I never questioned him) with this.  They bore no resemblance:  but I remembered that two years make changes in all things; they might have effected this.  The signatures were unlike; the latter contained the initial H. What if they were not written by the same person?  The question was too mighty for me.  I was compelled to await the answer.

“Bernard would be in Redleaf in November.  He named the day,—­appointed the place of meeting.  It was the old tower in the church-yard.  I had a fancy, as you have, for the dreary dimness there.  As children, we made it our temple for all the worships childhood knows.  The door had long been gone; it was open to every one who chose to enter in.  Before the coming of the day, I was in continual fear lest the new joy that had come into my life should trace itself visibly on my outward