“My dear Curtis:—­Keep the ashes for me; they make good tooth powder.  Quincy.”

The box was then done up and addressed to Curtis Carter, Esq., the clerk promising to have it delivered at once.

Quincy had found a letter at his aunt’s from Mr. Strout, asking him to buy a line of fancy groceries and confectionery for Christmas trade, and it was noon before he had attended to the matter to his complete satisfaction.  A hasty lunch and he was once more on his way to New York, and during the trip his hand sought the inside pocket of his coat a score of times, that he might feel assured that the precious document was still there.

Arriving, Quincy proceeded at once to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.  Sir Stuart was eagerly awaiting his arrival, and his first question was, “Have you the papers?”

Quincy took the package from his pocket and placed it on the table before him, remarking as he did so, “It must not be opened until to-morrow morning, and then by the young lady herself.”

The old man pushed the package away from him and turned a stern face toward Quincy.  “I yield obedience,” said he, “to your wife’s command, but if one man or two stood now between me and my darling’s child, I would have their lives, if they tried to keep her from my arms for one instant even.”

After a little reflection he apologized for his vehement language, and sought his room to think, and hope, and wait—­but not to sleep.

The next morning, a little before nine o’clock, a carriage containing two gentlemen stopped before a modest brick dwelling in West Forty-first Street.  A servant admitted them and showed them into the little parlor.  The room was empty.  Quincy pointed to a sofa at the farther end of the room, and Sir Stuart took a seat thereon.  Quincy stepped into the entry and greeted Celeste, who was just descending the stairs.

“Sir Stuart Fernborough is in your parlor,” said he; “he may be, and I hope to Heaven he is, your grandfather, but you must control your feelings until you know the truth.  Come and sit by me, near the window, and read what is written in this package, so loud that he can hear every word.”  As he said this he placed the package, which might or might not prove her honorable heritage, in her hands.

They entered the room and took seats near the window.  Celeste opened the package with trembling fingers.  As she did so that little telltale piece of cloth, bearing the name “Linda Fernborough,” once more fell upon the floor.  Quincy picked it up, and held it during the reading of the letter, for a letter it proved to be.

It had no envelope, but was folded in the old-fashioned way, so as to leave a blank space on the back of the last sheet for the address.  The address was, “Mr. Silas Putnam, Hanover, New Hampshire.”

Celeste began to read in a clear voice:  “Dear brother Silas.”