Poppea of the Post-Office

by Mabel Osgood Wright

"Yes," and he pointed once more to the chair, feeling that he himself had not strength to stand.

Poppea, always alert to the needs of others, realized this and seated herself, grasping the arms of the chair with a tension that made the blood settle about her finger nails.

"You know who my parents are?"

"Yes."

"Were they married?"

"Yes."

"Are they living?"

"Your mother is not."

"I think that I knew that; she would not have left me on a doorstep. Is the miniature in the locket my mother's portrait?"

"Your mother at nineteen."