ever had any
others, dear little boy--my dear little boy!"

Underneath were more letters, a package first; quite a lot of them,
thirty, fifty--it was hard to guess--held together by a rubber strap.
The strap broke as she drew out the first envelope and they fell all
about her, some on the floor, but she did not notice it, for the address
was in a feminine writing that had a vague familiarity. She stopped a
moment, with the envelope in one hand and the fingers of the other hand
on the folded paper inside. It felt like a dishonorable thing to
do--like prying into the boy's secrets, forcing his confidence; and she
had never done that. Yet some one must know whether these papers of his
should be burned or kept, and who was there but herself? She drew out
the letter. It began "My dearest." The boy's mother stopped short and
drew a trembling breath, with a sharp, jealous pain. She had not known.
Then she lifted her head and saw the dots of white on the green earth
across the bay and her heart grew soft for that other woman to whom he
had been "dearest" too, who must suffer this sorrow of losing him too.
But she could not read her letters, she must send them, take them to
her, and tell her that his mother had held them sacred. She turned to
the signature.

"And so you must believe, darling, that I am and always will
be--always, always, with love and kisses, your own dear, little 'Good
Queen Bess.'"

It was not the sort of an ending to a letter she would have expected
from the girl he loved, for the boy, though most undemonstrative, had
been intense and taken his affections seriously always. But one can
never tell, and the girl was probably quite young. But who was she? The
signature gave no clew; the date was two years before, and from New
York--sufficiently vague! She would have to read until she found the
thread, and as she read the wonder grew that so flimsy a personality
could have held her boy. One letter, two, three, six, and yet no sign to
identify the writer. She wrote first from New York on the point of
starting for a long stay abroad, and the other letters were all from
different places on the other side. Once in awhile a familiar name
cropped up, but never to give any clew. There were plenty of people whom
she called by their Christian names, but that helped nothing. And often
she referred to their engagement--to their marriage to come. It was hard
for the boy's mother, who believed she had had his confidence. Bu