"Lottie," I said, in a whisper,—"Lottie, is it you?"
She was sitting on the floor, with both arms locked around her knees, on which her forehead rested. The girl looked up, and her heavy eyes met mine.
"Yes, it's me, Miss Hyde; I haven't left her a minute since then," she said, drearily. "Don't ask me to go away—I couldn't do it."
"Ask you to go away, Lottie? Oh! no, my poor girl! We have watched together in this room many a time; but never in this sad way."
"I know it," she said; "you were always good to her, and she felt it. But tell me, Miss Hyde, do you think it was the letter I brought that laid her there?"
"I cannot tell. Still it must have been, she was so well only a moment before it touched her hand. Who could have written it?"
"I have been thinking and thinking, Miss Hyde. The writing was like Miss Jessie's; I thought so at the time."
"Miss Jessie's? Are you sure?"
"So it seemed to me; but I've got the envelope, look for yourself."
I took the crumpled envelope which she took from her bosom and held toward me. It was of creamy-white paper, very thick, and with an inner lining of blue, a color that Jessie affected where it could be delicately introduced among her stationery. The writing was like hers, but with a slight appearance of disguise.