"I know," said Joe, quietly. "My mother was a circus rider."
"So you have told me. But now about this letter, Joe. I wish Bill Watson were here—he might know what to do about it."
"Well, I can't say that I do, in spite of my boast," Joe answered. "It may be a joke, and, again, it may be the real thing. You may be an heiress, Miss Morton," and Joe bowed teasingly.
"I thought you were going to call me Helen—if I called you Joe," she said.
"So I am. That was only in fun," for soon after their acquaintance began these two young persons had fallen into the habit of dropping the formal Miss and Mister.
"Well, what would you do, Joe?" Helen asked.
"I think I'd answer this letter seriously," replied the young performer. "If it is a joke you can't lose more than a two cent stamp, and, on the other hand, if it's serious they'll want to hear from you. You may be the very person they want. This letter head doesn't look much like a joke."
The paper on which the letter was written was of excellent quality, and Joe could tell by passing his fingers over the names, addresses and other matter that it was engraved—not printed.
"If it's a joke they went to a lot of work to get it up," he continued. "Have you any papers, to prove your identity?"
"Yes, I have some birth and marriage certificates, and an old bible that was Grandfather Seth's. I wouldn't want to send them off to New York though."