Thus began a long succession of peaceful days, spent with Lillian's small daughter. She was a bewitching little creature of nine years, but so tiny that she appeared more like a child of six. I had taught many children, but never had been associated with a child at home. I grew sincerely attached to the little creature, and she, in turn, appeared very fond of me. Lillian told her to call me "Aunt Madge," and the sound of the title was grateful to me.
"Auntie Madge, Auntie Madge," the sweet childish voice rang the changes on the name so often that I grew to associate my name with the love I felt for the child. This made it all the harder for me to bear when the child's hand all unwittingly brought me the hardest blow Fate had yet dealt me.
It was her chief delight to answer the postman's ring, and bring me the mail each day. On this particular afternoon I had been especially busy, and thus less miserable than usual. I heard the postman's ring, and then the voice of Marion.
"Auntie Madge, it's a letter for you this time."
I began to tremble, for some unaccountable reason. It was as though the shadow of the letter the child was bringing had already begun to fall on me. As she ran to me, and held out the letter, I saw that it was postmarked San Francisco! But the handwriting was not Dicky's.
I opened it, and from it fell a single sheet of notepaper inscribed:
"She laughs best who laughs last. Grace Draper."
I looked at the thing until it seemed to me that the characters were alive and writhed upon the paper. I shudderingly put the paper away from me, and leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes. Then Marion's little arms were around my neck, her warm, moist kisses upon my cheek, her frightened voice in my ears.
"Oh! Auntie Madge," she said. "What was in the naughty letter that hurt you so? Nasty old thing! I'm going to tear it up."
"No, no, Marion," I answered. "I must let your mother see it first.
Call her, dear, won't you, please?"