"I wonder who it is from? Mrs. Smith gets a great many letters. No envelope, thank goodness! but a plain, good old fashioned letter. I must see who it is from."
By this time Mary had stepped within the back parlor. I stood, hid from her view, by one of the folding doors, which was closed, but within a few feet of her.
"From Mrs. Jackson! Hum—m. I wonder what she's got to say? Something about me, I'll bet a dollar."
There was a very apparent change in the thermometer of Mary's feelings at this last thought, as was evident from the tone of her voice.
"Lace collars—stockings—pocket han—. I can't make out that word, but it is handkerchiefs, of course," thus Mary read and talked to herself. "Breastpin—this is too mean! It's not true, neither. I'm a great mind to burn the letter. Mrs. Smith would never be the wiser. I won't give it to her now, at any rate. I'll put it in my pocket, and just think about it."
The next sound that came to my ears was the pattering of Mary's feet as she went hurrying up the stairs.
In a few minutes I followed. In one of my chambers I found Mary, and said to her:
"Didn't the carrier leave me a letter just now?"
The girl hesitated a moment, and then answered:
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I have it here in my pocket."