arly
done, when, in turning over some magazines, I came upon a pile of papers
that had been laid between the leaves of one, and ere I was aware of
their presence, they slid down and scattered. I remember having felt
a little surprise that my father should have left them there, but I
hastened to gather them together. The last one of the number, I noticed,
was torn; it had a foreign look. "Father has some new correspondent," I
thought, as I looked at the number of mail-marks upon it. "He doesn't
think much of it, though, or it would have received better treatment;"
and I took a second look at it. A something in the feel of the paper
seemed familiar. "It is good for nothing," I said aloud, and I tossed
it toward the grate, put the pile of papers where I had found them,
surveyed my work with satisfaction, and stood thinking whether or not I
should wait to see my father again--it was more than an hour since
he went up--to say good-night to me. "I will wait a half-hour; if he
doesn't come then, I'll go," I said to the housekeeper, who came to see
that all was right for the night, and to remind me that Redleaf had not
proved very advantageous to my complexion, and to recommend early hours
as a restorative.

In accordance with my promise, I drew a chair forward, placed my feet
upon the fender, and began to study the dying embers that were slowly
falling through the grate-bars. One, larger than usual, burned its way
down. It lighted up, for an instant, the bit of paper, that had not
fallen into the coals. Strange fancy it was that led me to imagine
that I saw a capital A, followed immediately by that unknown quantity
represented by x. I made an effort to gain it, scorched my face, and
burned my fingers; for I touched the grate, in rescuing that which I had
cast into the place of burning.

"This bit of paper, found in New York, had once been integral with that
I had found within the church-yard tower in Redleaf," some inner
voice assured me. "Yes, it is a part of it," I said, for I distinctly
remembered the fragment whose possession I had so rejoiced over. Some
one had written a letter to Miss Axtell; the envelope was torn,--one
part there, another here. The letter itself I had found in the gloom of
the passage-way; for it Miss Axtell had gone out to search, ill, and in
the night; what must its contents have been, to have been worthy of such
effort?--and for the time I quite forgot to connect this man, ill in my
father's house,