Bob paused and glanced about the group to make sure that they were all properly curious before he continued: “The tunnel was not high enough for even Gerry to stand in erect and so on all fours we crept through it. Since the opening had been stopped up I did not fear meeting wild creatures, but as we neared the other end, the daylight grew brighter and then to our great surprise we came out upon a wide ledge which hung there in the most dizzying manner. On it was a rustic cabin, and back of that a fenced-in dooryard. Surely, we decided, this was Cabin 10. There was no way of reaching it except through the tunnel, as the mountain wall was almost perpendicular above and below the ledge.
“We were greatly elated and at once tried the door and found it unlocked. There was only one room and it looked like the den of a student. Books and papers were everywhere in evidence; dust-covered and yellowed with the years. On the desk a bottle of dried ink was uncorked and a rusted pen lying there seemed to indicate that someone had suddenly stopped writing, and, for some reason, had never again taken up the pen. As further proof of this we found a letter which was lying near, with even the last sentence unfinished. It is addressed to ‘My dear petite daughter—Eulalie.’ We didn’t stop to read it because it was getting late and so we started for home.”
Meg, no longer able to keep silent, leaned forward, asking eagerly, “Bob, may I see the letter that my father left for me?”
“Your father?” Jane and Merry exclaimed almost simultaneously. Even then Meg’s calm was not outwardly disturbed.
“Yes,” she said, turning her wonderful eyes toward her friends. In them the girls saw an expression of radiant happiness which told them more than words could how great was Meg’s joy that she had at last learned who her father really was. Jane and Merry were perplexed. How did Meg know? Their question was answered before it was asked. “I should have told you girls this afternoon. When Dan spoke the name that he had found carved on the handle of the old shovel, instantly memory recalled to me that, as a very small child, I had been taught to lisp that my name was Lalie Giguette.”
“O Meg, what a beautiful name. May we begin at once to call you Eulalie?” The mountain girl smiled at Jane. “If you wish, dear friend.” She then held out her hand for the letter which Bob had gone to his sweater coat to procure.
“We found several books with your father’s name on them as author,” the boy informed her, and the girl looked up brightly to say, “O, I am so glad! Did you bring them?”
“No,” Bob replied, “we thought perhaps you would like to visit the cabin and find everything there just as he left it.”
“I would indeed!” Meg rose, and going to the center table, she spread the letter under the hanging lamp. After a moment’s scrutiny, she turned toward the silently waiting group. “It is clearly written,” she said. “I will read it aloud:
“‘To my dear petite daughter Eulalie,’” Meg read,