"You see," said Lottie, still in a whisper, "it looks like Miss Jessie's; but what could she write to her about?"
"It is strange," I murmured.
"Terribly strange! I can't make it out. All the time, for two whole nights and days, I have thought of it; and the more I think the darker it all grows. Oh, if she could only speak; but that will never be again—"
Her voice broke here, and clasping her knees tighter, she began rocking to and fro, uttering faint, dry moans, that went to my heart. Lottie had not shed a tear since her mistress's death.
"Never again—never again!" she kept whispering.
"Don't Lottie," I said; "it breaks my heart to hear you go on in this way."
She looked at me earnestly; then dropped her face and said, with infinite pathos,—
"Oh! that my heart could break!"
I bent over her.
"Be comforted, Lottie. If our friend could speak, this is what she would say—"