Putting this in a place of safety that no harm might come to it, he removed the wrapping of heavy paper and began to inspect the contents.
They consisted chiefly of letters addressed to Earle, in a delicate, feminine hand, the sight of which made Sumner Dalton start violently and grow a sudden crimson.
“Pshaw!” he said, impatiently, and drawing a deep breath, “there are hundreds of women who write a similar hand.”
He opened one or two of the letters and read them.
They were all dated from a little town in England, and were addressed to “My dear son,” and simply signed “Your loving mother.”
There was not much of interest in them to him, only now and then there was an expression which seemed to touch some long dormant chord of memory, and made him shiver as he read.
He soon grew weary of this occupation, however, and laid the letters aside to examine further.
There were several pretty drawings wrapped in tissue paper, a sketch, in water-colors, of a charming little cottage, half hidden by vines and climbing roses, and in one corner of this there were three tiny initials.
Sumner Dalton nearly bounded from his chair as he read them, repeating them aloud as he did so.
The color forsook his face, his lips twitched nervously, and a startled, anxious expression sprang to his eyes.