Suddenly Lammy cried out in delight, for there before him was a pen-and-ink sketch of Bird herself, much younger and happier than when he had last seen her, but still his little friend to the life.
“Oh, mother,” he said, as soon as he had feasted his eyes on it, “do you think there could be any harm in putting this up on the mantel-shelf where I could look at it—just for a few days until we go to get Bird back?” And of course his mother assured him that there could be no possible harm. Then, completely satisfied, he laid the sheets of drawing-paper together again and prepared to make them into a neat, flat package.
“You’ve dropped this out,” said his mother, reaching across the bed to pick up something that had slid down between the coverlid and the wall, and laid what seemed to be a letter in a long, heavy, brown manila envelope tied with pink tape in front of Lammy.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said, looking it over; “it must have been between the pictures when we pulled them out of her father’s box, because those were all I saw when I made the bundle up. See, there’s writing on this side,” and holding it up to the light, for the winter twilight was setting in, he read slowly:—
“‘Papers concerning the Turner Mill Farm Property,—to be recorded.’ I wonder what that means.”
Mrs. Lane’s eyes fairly bulged, and great drops of sweat stood on her forehead as she answered: “Means? It means, Lammy Lane, that the Lord don’t forget the orphan, and if Bird O’More is in New York, he’s lookin’ after her business right here in Laurelville.
“‘It means, Lammy Lane, that the Lord don’t forget the orphan.’”
“The meaning of that letter is what Abiram Slocum burnt up his cross-road house to conceal, which he wouldn’t hev done if it was of no account.” And Mrs. Lane poured out her suspicions and ideas concerning the matter.