as a good deal ruffled when he
read this letter, but he made no remark about it. "Would you like to
read it?" he said to Annie.

She greatly desired to read it, but there was something in her lover's
face, and in the tone in which he spoke, which made her suspect that
the reading of that letter might be, in some degree, humiliating to
him. She was certain, from the expression of his face as he read it,
that the letter contained matter very unpleasant to Lawrence, and it
might be that it would wound him to have another person, especially
herself, read them; and so she said: "I don't care to read it if you
will tell me why she wrote to you, and the point of what she says."

"Thank you," said Lawrence. And he crumpled the letter in his hand as
he spoke. "She wrote," he continued, "in consequence of a letter she
has had from your aunt."

"What!" exclaimed Annie. "Did Aunt Keswick write to her?"

"Yes," said Lawrence, "and sent it by a special messenger. She must
have told her all the heinous crimes with which she charged you and
me, particularly me; and this must have been the first intimation to
Miss March that her cousin had given me the answer she made to him;
therefore Miss March writes in haste to let me know that she did not
intend that that answer should be given to me, and that she wishes it
generally understood that I have no more connection with her than I
have with the Queen of Spain. That is the sum and substance of the
letter."

"I knew as well as I know anything in the world," said Annie, "that
that message Junius brought you meant nothing." And, taking the
crumpled letter from his hand, she threw it on the few embers that
remained in the fireplace; and, as it blazed and crumbled into black
ashes, she said: "Now that is the end of Roberta March!"

"Yes," said Lawrence, emphasizing his remark with an encircling arm,
"so far as we are concerned, that is the end of her."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

On the next day, old Aunt Patsy was buried. Mrs Keswick and Annie
attended the ceremonies in the cabin, but they did not go to the
burial. After a time, it might be in a week or two, or it might be in
a year, the funeral sermon would be preached in the church, and they
would go to hear that. Aunt Patsy never finished her crazy quilt,
several pieces being wanted to one corner of it; but in the few days
preceding her burial two old women of the congregation, with trembling
hands and uncertain eyes, sewed in these