There was one of father’s thin letters for Felix, a fat, foreign letter for the Story Girl, addressed in her father’s minute handwriting, a drop letter for Cecily from some school friend, with “In Haste” written across the corner, and a letter for Aunt Janet, postmarked Montreal.
“I can’t think who that is from,” said Felicity. “Nobody in Montreal ever writes to mother. Cecily’s letter is from Em Frewen. She always puts ‘In Haste’ on her letters, no matter what is in them.”
When we reached home, Aunt Janet opened and read her Montreal letter. Then she laid it down and looked about her in astonishment.
“Well, did ever any mortal!” she said.
“What in the world is the matter?” said Uncle Alec.
“This letter is from James Ward’s wife in Montreal,” said Aunt Janet solemnly. “Rachel Ward is dead. And she told James’ wife to write to me and tell me to open the old blue chest.”
“Hurrah!” shouted Dan.
“Donald King,” said his mother severely, “Rachel Ward was your relation and she is dead. What do you mean by such behaviour?”
“I never was acquainted with her,” said Dan sulkily. “And I wasn’t hurrahing because she is dead. I hurrahed because that blue chest is to be opened at last.”
“So poor Rachel is gone,” said Uncle Alec. “She must have been an old woman—seventy-five I suppose. I remember her as a fine, blooming young woman. Well, well, and so the old chest is to be opened at last. What is to be done with its contents?”