In a few minutes I followed.  In one of my chambers I found Mary, and said to her: 

“Didn’t the carrier leave me a letter just now?”

The girl hesitated a moment, and then answered: 

“Oh, yes, ma’am.  I have it here in my pocket.”

And she drew forth the letter, crumbled, as was usually the case with all that passed through her hands.

I took it, with some gravity of manner; for I felt, naturally enough, indignant.  Mary flushed a little under the steady eye that I fixed upon her.

The letter, or note, was from my friend, Mrs. Jackman, and read as follows: 

“MY DEAR MRS. SMITH.—­Do call in and see me some time to-day.  I have bought some of the cheapest laces, stockings, and cambric pocket handkerchiefs that ever were seen.  There are more left; and at a great bargain.  You must have some.  And, by the way, bring with you that sweet breastpin I saw you wear at Mrs. May’s last Thursday evening.  I want to examine it closely.  I must have one just like it.  Do come round to-day; I’ve lots of things to say to you.

Yours, &c.”

“Nothing so dreadful in all that,” I said to myself, as I re-folded the letter.  “My curious lady’s conscience must be a little active!  Let’s see what is to come of this.”

It is hardly in the nature of woman to look very lovingly upon the servant whom she has discovered peeping into her letters.  At least, it was not in my nature.  I, therefore, treated Mary with becoming gravity, whenever we happened to meet.  She, under the circumstances, was ill at ease; and rather shunned contact with me.  The morning passed away, and the afternoon waned until towards five o’clock, when the accumulating pressure on Mary’s feelings became so great that she was compelled to seek relief.

I was alone, sewing, when my chamber maid entered my room.  The corners of her lips inclined considerably downward.

“Can I speak a word with you, Mrs. Smith?” said she.

“Certainly, Mary,” I replied.  “What do you wish to say?”

Mary cleared her throat once or twice—­looked very much embarrassed, and at length stammered out.

“You received a letter from Mrs. Jackson this morning?”

“No.”  I shook my head as I uttered this little monosyllable.

A flush of surprise went over the girl’s face.

“Wasn’t the letter I gave you from Mrs. Jackson?” she asked.

“No; it was from Mrs. Jackman.”

Mary caught her breath, and stammered out, in her confusion: 

“Oh, my!  I thought it was from Mrs. Jackson.  I was sure of it.”

“What right had you to think any thing about it?” I asked, with marked severity.

Mary’s face was, by this time crimsoned.

I looked at her for some moments, and then, taking from my drawer Mrs. Jackman’s note, handed it to her, and said: 

“There’s the letter you were so curious about this morning.  Read it.”