"Aunt Miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has a letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again to-night. Will you bring me his coat, please?"
Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable.
"Don't wake him," called Barbara, in a shrill whisper. "If he is not asleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must have the coat to-night."
From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriam turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. It had not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at her quickness.
Perhaps the letter was not in his coat—it might be somewhere else. At any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara. Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle.
The Letter Recovered
Yes, the letter was there—two sheets: one in ink, in Constance's hand, the other, in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write to one who was blind?
With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both letters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when she took the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking.
The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it.