er voice. "I want--some
tea!"

Aunt Amy glanced irresolutely from the open letter in her hand to the
girl's face, and decided to postpone the matter of the letter. "I'll get
it, Esther. You sit here and rest."

When she returned the girl seemed herself again. She took the tea-tray
and kissed the bearer with a fervour born of remorse. "I am a Pig," she
declared, "and you are a darling! Never mind, we'll even up some day."

"When you have had your tea, Esther, I've got a letter I want you to
read."

"A letter? Who from? I mean, from whom? Gracious! I'll have to be more
careful of the King's English, now that I'm a school teacher."

"I don't know. It is signed just 'H' and it's written to 'Dearest wife.'
You don't know who that could be, do you?"

"Mother, perhaps?"

"No. It's not in your father's writing and his name did not begin with
'H.'"

"Where did you find it, dear?"

"Up in an old trunk of your grandma's--I mean of Mary's mother's. One of
the trunks that were sent here after she died. Mary asked me to put moth
balls in it. This letter was all crushed up in a corner. I took it out
to smooth it, because I knew it was a love letter. You don't think any
one would mind?"

"N--o." Esther, who knew Aunt Amy's feeling about love letters, could
not find it in her heart to disagree. "I think we may fairly call it
treasure-trove. It's only a note anyway." Her eyes ran swiftly over the
two short paragraphs upon the open sheet.

"Dearest wife:--

"At last I can call you 'wife' without fear. Our waiting is over. Brave
girl! If it has been as long to you as to me, you have been brave
indeed. But it is our day now. Even your mother cannot object any
longer. I am coming for you to-morrow. Only one more day!

"Dear, I think that in my wild impatience I did you wrong. But love does
not blame love. No wife shall ever be so loved as you. May God forget me
if I forget what you have done for me...."

"What a strange letter!" Esther looked up wonderingly.

"Is that all, Esther?" Aunt Amy's face was vaguely disappointed. "The
one I read was much longer than that."

"That is all that is written here, Auntie. But it is a beautiful letter.
They had been separated, you see, and she had been brave and waited. One
can imagine--"

The click of the garden gate interrupted her.

"Here's your mother," said Aunt Amy, in a flurried tone. "Don't let
her--"

"Is that the mail, Esther?" Mrs. Coombe's high voice held a fretful
i