"I think I may safely say, may I not, Sisters Ann and Matilda, that this quite alters the case?" was Aunt Sarah's strange query.
"Quite so, indeed," agreed Aunt Matilda, complacently smoothing her apron.
"Very much so," added Aunt Ann.
"Decidedly," resumed Aunt Sarah. "Your father, young man, handled the estate of our deceased Uncle Peter in a most upright and satisfactory fashion—for a man. So far, much is in your favor, since our unfortunate niece will not be contented without some sort of a husband. Your personal qualifications have yet to be proved, however. We presume that you can offer documentary evidence as to your own worth, sir?"
"Not for a day or so, unfortunately," confessed the young man. "The dogs destroyed all my papers. The only thing I could find was a portion of a brief note from my mother."
The three aunts, as by one electric impulse, bent forward with shining eyes.
"From your mother!" hungrily repeated Aunt Sarah. "Let us see it, if you will, please."
He produced it reluctantly. It was not exactly the sort of letter a young man cares to parade.
"'My beloved son,'" Aunt Sarah read aloud, pausing to bestow a softened glance upon him. "'I can not wait for your return to say how proud I am of you. Your noble and generous action in regard to the aged widow Crane's property has just come to my ears, through a laughing complaint of your father about your unbusinesslike methods in dealing with those who have been unfortunate. In spite of his whimsically expressed disapproval, he feels that you are an honor to him. Your sister Nellie cried in her pride and love of you when she heard—'"
The rest of the letter had been lost, but this was enough.