“Old letters,” said Miss Pinckney, “you don’t say—what were they about?”
“I read one or two,” said the girl. “I’d never, never have dreamed of touching them only—only they were hers—they were to him.”
“Rupert?”
“Yes.”
“Love letters?”
“Yes.”
Miss Pinckney sighed.
“He kept all her letters,” said she, “and they came back to her after he was killed. He was killed here in Charleston, at Fort Sumter, in the war; they brought him across here and carried him on a stretcher and she—well, well, it’s all done with and let it rest, but it is strange that those letters should have fallen into your hands.”
“Why?” burst out Miss Pinckney. “Why I have dusted that old bureau inside and out a hundred times, and pulled out the drawers and pushed them in and it never shewed sign of having anything in it but emptiness, and you don’t do more’n look at it and you find those letters. It’s just as if the thing had deceived me. I don’t mind, and I don’t want to see them, they weren’t intended for other eyes than his and hers—and maybe yours since they were shewn you like that.”