"Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might keep you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. And he had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the poor young lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me as he is; dearer perhaps until now—when—when—I am about to lose him."
Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they had no interest for him at such a moment.
The hostess went on—
"Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him: she did not look like one long for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers besides these papers are still here; but I keep them aired and dusted, and strew lavender over them, in case she ever comes for them again. You never heard tell of her, did you, sir?" she added, with great simplicity, and dropping a half courtsey.
"Of her?—of whom?"
"Did not Mr. John tell you her name—dear—dear?—Mrs. Bertram."
Leonard started;—the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley L'Estrange.
"Bertram!" he repeated. "Are you sure?"
"O yes, sir! And many years after she had left us, and we had heard no more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea, sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John would break the seal, to know if it would tell us any thing about her; but it was all in a foreign language like—we could not read a word."
"Have you the packet? Pray, show it to me. It may be of the greatest value. To-morrow will do—I can not think of that just now. Poor Burley!"