"Why, I don't understand at all," said Shelley. "Just look at all these queer letters, addressed to Mr. Paget. Why should they be sent to me? I mustn't open them. They're not mine. There must be some mistake."
"These are DEAD LETTERS," said father. "They've been written to you, couldn't be delivered, and so were sent to the Dead Letter Office at Washington, which returned them to the writer, and unopened he has forwarded them once more to you. You've heard of dead letters, haven't you?"
"I suppose so," said Shelley. "I don't remember just now; but there couldn't be a better name. They've come mighty near killing me."
"If you'd only read that note!" urged May, putting it right into her fingers.
Shelley still sat there.
"I'm afraid of it," she said exactly like I'd have spoken if there had been a big rattlesnake coming right at me, when I'd nothing at hand to bruise it.
Laddie and Leon came from the barn. They had heard me calling, seen May and me run, and then father and mother coming down, so they walked over.
"What's up?" asked Leon. "Has Uncle Levi's will been discovered, and does mother get his Mexican mines?"
"What have you got, Shelley?" asked Laddie, kneeling beside her, and picking up one of the yellow letters.
"I hardly know," said Shelley.