"On the cellar stairs, papa; I went down to find Fido, and he was playing with it."
"What is it, Joseph?" said Aunt Sarah, in tones a shade more eager than their wont.
"I do not know, my dear," replied my uncle; "it is very old," and he went on reading with a more and more sobered face.
"Robert," said he, turning to the waiter, "do you know where this paper could have come from? Have any old papers been carried down from the garret, to light the fire in the furnace?" "No, sir," said Robert, "not that I know, sir."
"There are whole barrels of old papers under the eaves in the garret," said Aunt Sarah; "I have always meant to have them burned up; I dare say this came out of one of them, in some way;" and she resumed her habitual expression of nonchalance.
"Perhaps so," said Uncle Jo, folding up the paper and putting it in his pocket. "I will look, after breakfast."
She glanced up, again surprised, and said, "Why? is it of any importance?"
"Oh, no, no," said he hastily, with a shade of embarrassment in his voice, "it is only an old letter, but I thought there might be more from the same person."
"Who was it?" said Aunt Sarah, languidly.
"I don't know; only the first name is signed," said he evasively; and the placid lady asked no more. The children were busy with Fido, and breakfast went on, but I watched my uncle's face. I had never seen it look just as it looked then. What could that old yellow letter have been? My magnetic sympathy with my uncle told me that he was deeply moved.