"Oh!—I've—lost—something!" and she tolled the words out, as slowly as the notes of the passing bell.
"What is it, Lettie? Come home; the day is breaking"; and Mr. Axtell put his arm about her.
I thought of the letter that I had picked up in the passage-way.
"What have you lost, Miss Axtell? Is it anything that I could find for you?" and I laid my hand upon hers, as the only method of drawing away her eyes from their terrible immutation of expression.
"You? No, I should think not; how could you? you only found a piece of it."
"What is this?" I asked; and I held up the letter: the superscription was visible only to herself.
What a change came over her! Soft, dewy tears melted in those burning eyes, and sent a mist of sweet effluence over her face. Mr. Axtell was still supporting her; she did not touch the letter I held; she reached out both of her hands, bent a little toward me,—for she was much taller than I am,—took my cold, shivering face in those two burning hands, and touched my forehead with her lips.
"God has made you well," she said; "thank Him."
She did not ask for the letter. I put it whence I had taken it. She evidently trusted me with it.
"Abraham, I'm sick," she said; and she laid her head upon his shoulder, passively as an infant might have done.