He produced it from the pocket where it had lain in waiting, and we read.  Many lines were illegible entirely, but together we deciphered much of it.  “The baby is dead—­she was beautiful, and if (here were two words we could not make out), it would have been so nice (then two lines blurred and indistinct, and another broken sentence).  Where can your letters ——­ I am sure you write.  If ——­ then I shall go to find ——.  My father will give us ——­” and from all these grief-laden sentences, we gathered a story that struck us both as being almost made to coincide with that of the poor lamb.

“Louis,” I said, “if this is the very Mary, what shall we do?”

“We will do right and let problems be solved as best they can.  First let us understand about ourselves, then we can better act for others.  How did Mr. Benton annoy you?”

Then I told him.

“And you did not even think you loved him?”

“Louis,” I cried, “how could you think so, when my heart has been yours always?  How could you think of me in that light?” And those old tears came into my eyes.

“I could not convince myself that such was the case, but Wilmur Benton gave me so to understand—­said you were a coy damsel but a glorious girl, and would make a splendid wife—­’just such as I need,’ he said, ‘congratulate me.’

“When, Louis, did he say this?”

“The night of our walk; and it was this instead of the picture he talked of.”

“You were cruel not to tell me,” I said.

“I waited for my year to finish as I had said I would, and then, Emily, I waited longer for fear you did not know your heart.  Matthias said to me one day, ‘Masr’ Louis, dat man neber can gain de day ober thar; Miss Emily done gone clar off de books, an he’s such a bother—­um—­um.’  This set me to thinking; I asked him how he came to think so.  ’Dunno, can’t help it, ’pears like dat gal’s eyes tell me ‘nuf.’  All this was good to hear, and I had watched you very closely for days, thinking every morning, ‘I will tell her before night;’ and several times went into Hal’s room purposely, but Mr. Benton was always before me.  It was because you felt all this that the letter made you feel truly an opening path—­your tearful talk by the old apple tree was the ‘sesame’ that opened the way to the light.”

“I do not like to feel that man is such a character as all these things indicate,” I said, adding dreamily, “but I never came very near to him.  He is a splendid artist, and still the canvas does not speak of his soul.”

“How utterly void of feeling for those in bondage he seems to be!  What a cold crust covers him!  Emily.”

“It hurts me to think you could for a moment believe I preferred him to you.”

“You must not for a moment believe that in my soul I did, for it is not true; but I knew your artless, loving heart, and I knew also Mr. Benton had the power to polish sentences of flattery that might for a little dazzle you, as it were.”