“How funny! Give it to me, please.”
“Give the bag to Aunt Andora, darling! Here—look inside, and see what else a big big boy can find there! Yes, here’s another! Why, why—”
Lizzie rose with a shade of impatience and crossed the floor to the romping group beside the other trunk.
“What is it? Give me the letters, please.” As she spoke, she suddenly recalled the day when, in Mme. Clopin’s pension, she had addressed a similar behest to Andora Macy.
Andora had lifted a look of startled conjecture. “Why, this one’s never been opened! Do you suppose that awful woman could have kept it from him?”
Lizzie laughed. Andora’s imaginings were really puerile. “What awful woman? His landlady? Don’t be such a goose, Andora. How can it have been kept back from him, when we’ve found it here among his things?”
“Yes; but then why was it never opened?”
Andora held out the letter, and Lizzie took it. The writing was hers; the envelop bore the Passy postmark; and it was unopened. She stood looking at it with a sudden sharp drop of the heart.
“Why, so are the others—all unopened!” Andora threw out on a rising note; but Lizzie, stooping over, stretched out her hand.
“Give them to me, please.”