“Oh, no, she ain’t sick.  The spring weather has made her feel kind of tired out, that’s all.  It ’most always does.”

“Well, I’m glad she isn’t sick,” said the girl, her radiant absent eyes turned upon the minister, who was talking with some one at the desk.  “She wasn’t out to meeting, and I didn’t know but she might be.”

“She thought she wouldn’t—­” began Mrs. Field, but the girl was gone.  The minister had started down the other aisle, and she met him at the door.

Several other people inquired for Lois as Mrs. Field made her way out; some had heard she was ill in bed.  She had an errand to do at the store on her way home; when she reached it she went in, and stood waiting at the counter.

There were a number of men lounging about the large, rank, becluttered room, and there were several customers.  The village post-office was in one corner of the store.  There were only two clerks besides the proprietor, who was postmaster as well.  Mrs. Field had to wait quite a while; but at last she had made her purchases, and was just stepping out the door, when a voice arrested her.  “Mis’ Field,” it said.

She turned, and saw the postmaster coming toward her with a letter in his hand.  The lounging men twisted about and stared lazily.  The postmaster was a short, elderly man with shelving gray whiskers, and a wide, smiling mouth, which he was drawing down solemnly.

“Mis’ Field, here’s a letter I want you to look at; it come this mornin’,” he said, in a low voice.

Mrs. Field took the letter.  It was directed, in a fair round hand, to Mrs. Esther Maxwell; that had been her dead sister’s name.  She stood looking at it, her face drooping severely.  “It was sent to my sister,” said she.

“I s’posed so.  Well, I thought I’d hand it to you.”

Mrs. Field nodded gravely, and put the letter in her pocket.  She was again passing out, when somebody nudged her heavily.  It was Mrs. Green, a woman who lived in the next house beyond hers.

“Jest wait a minute,” she said, “an’ I’ll go along with you.”

So Mrs. Field stood back and waited, while her neighbor pushed forward to the counter.  After a little she drew the letter from her pocket and studied the superscription.  The post-mark was Elliot.  She supposed the letter to be from her dead sister’s father-in-law, who lived there.

“I may jest as well open it an’ see what it is while I’m waitin’,” she thought.

She tore open the envelope slowly and clumsily with her stiff fingers, and held up the letter so the light struck it.  She could not read strange writing easily, and this was a nearly illegible scrawl.  However, after the first few words, she seemed to absorb it by some higher faculty than reading.  In a short time she had the gist of the letter.  It was from a lawyer who signed himself Daniel Tuxbury.  He stated formally that Thomas Maxwell was dead; that he had left a will greatly to Esther Maxwell’s advantage, and that it would be advisable for her to come to Elliot at an early date if possible.  Inclosed was a copy of the will.  It was dated several years ago.  All Thomas Maxwell’s property was bequeathed without reserve to his son’s widow, Esther Maxwell, should she survive him.  In case of her decease before his own, the whole was to revert to his brother’s daughter, Flora Maxwell.