"A letter for me!" said Aunt Deborah in some surprise, for her correspondence was very limited. "Who's it from?"
"It is post-marked New York," said Mr. Simpson.
"I don't know no one in New York," said the old lady, fumbling in her pockets for her spectacles.
"Maybe it's one of your old beaux," said Mr. Simpson, humorously, a joke which brought a grim smile to the face of the old spinster. "But I must be goin'. If it's an offer of marriage, don't forget to invite me to the wedding."
Aunt Deborah went into the house, and seating herself in her accustomed place, carefully opened the letter. She turned over the page, and glanced at the signature. To her astonishment it was signed,
"Your affectionate nephew,
"FERDINAND B. KENSINGTON."
"Ferdinand!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Why, I thought he was in Californy by this time. How could he write from New York? I s'pose he'll explain. I hope he didn't lose the money I lent him."
The first sentence in the letter was destined to surprise Miss
Deborah yet more.
"Dear aunt," it commenced, "it is so many years since we have met, that I am afraid you have forgotten me."
"So many years!" repeated Miss Deborah in bewilderment. "What on earth can Ferdinand mean? Why, it's only five weeks yesterday since he was here. He must be crazy."