“On the corner of the mantelpiece. I’ll get it for you,” said Palma; and she arose and handed him the letter.
He took it and gazed at it.
“I don’t know the handwriting at all,” he said meditatively, “and it is postmarked ‘Wolfswalk, West Virginia.’ I should think it was intended for some one else, if my name was not such an uncommon one, and certainly there is no one else in this house that bears it.” And he turned it over and over and scrutinized it after the strange manner of people who receive a mysterious letter and play with their own curiosity by delaying to open it. At length he broke the envelope and unfolded the letter.
First of all he turned to the signature, which was at the bottom of the fourth page, so that he did not happen to open the sheet and find what lay between the leaves.
“‘John Cleve!’” he exclaimed. “Why, dear Palma, this is from my old bachelor great-uncle, who, I thought, had been gathered to his fathers ages ago. He must be at least eighty years old.”
“Oh, Cleve, read it to me! I never knew you had an uncle,” said Palma, dropping her work and coming and leaning over the back of his chair so that she could look at the open letter.
Cleve read as follows:
“Wolfswalk, West Virginia,
“November 25, 186—.
“My Dear Grand-nephew: You will be surprised to get a letter from me, of whom you can have but little memory, as you have not seen me since you were a babe of three years old, when your dear mother—my dear and only niece—brought you to my house.