“Oh, dear, no! The cabinet contained only his papers, all perfectly arranged,—you know how methodical were his habits,—and some old business and private letters, all carefully put away.”
“Let us see them,” said the young man, rising.
They opened drawer after drawer; files upon files of letters and business papers, accurately folded and filed. Suddenly Alice uttered a little cry, and picked up a quaint ivory paper-knife lying at the bottom of a drawer.
“It was missing the next day, and never could be found: he must have mislaid it here. This is the drawer,” said Alice eagerly.
Here was a clew. But the lower part of the drawer was filled with old letters, not labelled, yet neatly arranged in files. Suddenly he stopped, and said, “Put them back, Alice, at once.”
“Why?”
“Some of these letters are in my father's handwriting.”
“The more reason why I should see them,” said the girl imperatively. “Here, you take part, and I'll take part, and we'll get through quicker.”
There was a certain decision and independence in her manner which he had learned to respect. He took the letters, and in silence read them with her. They were old college letters, so filled with boyish dreams, ambitions, aspirations, and utopian theories, that I fear neither of these young people even recognized their parents in the dead ashes of the past. They were both grave, until Alice uttered a little hysterical cry, and dropped her face in her hands. Joe was instantly beside her.
“It's nothing, Joe, nothing. Don't read it, please; please, don't. It's so funny! it's so very queer!”