"Oh, Auntie!" she said with a little sob in her voice. "I want—some tea!"
Aunt Amy glanced irresolutely from the open letter in her hand to the girl's face, and decided to postpone the matter of the letter. "I'll get it, Esther. You sit here and rest."
When she returned the girl seemed herself again. She took the tea-tray and kissed the bearer with a fervour born of remorse. "I am a Pig," she declared, "and you are a darling! Never mind, we'll even up some day."
"When you have had your tea, Esther, I've got a letter I want you to read."
"A letter? Who from? I mean, from whom? Gracious! I'll have to be more careful of the King's English, now that I'm a school teacher."
"I don't know. It is signed just 'H' and it's written to 'Dearest wife.'
You don't know who that could be, do you?"
"Mother, perhaps?"
"No. It's not in your father's writing and his name did not begin with
'H.'"
"Where did you find it, dear?"
"Up in an old trunk of your grandma's—I mean of Mary's mother's. One of the trunks that were sent here after she died. Mary asked me to put moth balls in it. This letter was all crushed up in a corner. I took it out to smooth it, because I knew it was a love letter. You don't think any one would mind?"