"She writ a letter so's you'd know. That's all she said, only to ask if you were well; but you look jest like—a picter."
The compliment was so honest and so involuntary that Kathie bowed, her bright face flushing.
He ran down the steps and sprang into a common country sleigh, driving off in a great hurry.
There was a letter attached to the parcel. She tore off the wrapping of the package first, however, and found that it had been done up with great care. Inside of all, the largest and most beautiful lichen she had ever seen,—a perfect bracket in itself. The rings of coloring were exquisite. The soft woody browns, the bright sienna, the silvery drab and pink, like the inside of a sea-shell. The vegetation was so rank that it resembled the pile of velvet.
Like a flash a consciousness came over her, and although she heard Aunt Ruth's voice, she could not resist the desire to look at her letter.
A coarse, irregular hand, with several erasures and blotted words, but the name at the bottom—Sarah Ann Strong—made it all plain. The Sary Ann of the Soldiers' Fair. Kathie's heart gave a great bound.
"Come!" exclaimed Uncle Robert; "are you ready?"
There was no time for explanations. She laid the letter and parcel in her drawer in the great bookcase, thrust her ungloved hands into her muff, and ran out to Aunt Ruth, who stood on the step, waiting to be assisted into the carriage.
"Was it some more Christmas?" asked Uncle Robert, "or is it a secret?"
"It is no secret, but a very odd circumstance, and has quite a story connected with it. I think I will wait until we get home," she continued, slowly, remembering how short the distance was to church, and that a break in the narrative would spoil it.