"Oh, just at noon precisely, when most Christians are eating their dinner," she replied. "And the postman has been here too and brought a letter for you. Oh, dear, where is it now? Where could I have put it?" And she turned about and began to look for it, first on the table among the pieces of silk paper and then on the floor, assisted by the young man.
"What did the letter look like, dearest Aunt?"
"Blue--or gray--blue, I think," she replied, all out of breath, turning out the contents of her red silk reticule. She brought out a mass of rose-buds and an immense handkerchief edged with lace, but nothing else.
"Was the letter small or large?" he inquired from behind the sofa.
"Large and thick," gasped Aunt Rosalie. "Such a thing never happened to me before in my life--it is really dreadful." And with astounding agility she turned over the things on the consumptive little piano and tossed the antique sheets of music about.
"Perhaps it got into the stove, Auntie."
"No, no, it has not been unscrewed since this morning."
Frank Linden went to the bell and rung. "Don't take any more trouble about it, Auntie, the letter is sure to turn up; let the maid look for it."
Dorothy came and looked, and looked behind all the furniture, and shaking out all the curtains--but in vain.
"Well, we will give it up," declared Linden at length--"I suppose it is a letter from my mother or from the Judge--I can ask them what they had to say. Let us drink our coffee. Auntie."