there some of it torn off? and when you put
the words in it's easy enough to read. I've put them in to myself. First
of all, it's about Aunt Nannie dying, isn't it?"

"I s'pose it is," Duncan agreed; "and it's writ by Uncle Richard, isn't
it?"

"If you call him Uncle Richard. I say it's our father what wrote
it--yours and mine, Duncan."

Duncan stared at her in puzzled silence. "But Aunt Nannie was our Aunt
Grosvenor, wasn't she?" he asked.

"If you call her Aunt Grosvenor. I say she was our mother. I'm sure she
was," said Elsie.

"Our mother!" Duncan said, under his breath. "What do you mean, Elsie?"

"The letter says something about two little babies," Elsie began.

"Does it?" Duncan asked. "I didn't hear it."

"Well, it says, the 'little things,' and that's the same; and it's all
about sending them to Aunt Nannie's native place. Well, this is Aunt
Nannie's native place; and who were the two little things, eh?"

"I'm sure I dunno," Duncan said slowly.

"Well, they weren't Robbie, were they? Then, who were they? Why, you an'
me, of course. It says 'the girl' somewhere, an' of course that's me. So
now, isn't the letter about us? an' that's why granny was so afraid of
losing it. Do you see now, little silly? It's plain enough."

"But why did they?" murmured Duncan.

"That's the funny part of it. They ought to have told us. Why didn't
she?"

"Who?"

"Why, Robbie's mother, of course. She isn't our mother, an' I'm not
going to call her mother; I shall call her 'she.' You can call her what
you like. Why does she pretend to be our mother when she isn't? It's
different with granny, 'cos she's our granny right enough. Didn't I hear
her say 'Meg 'ud rue it?' It's a shame to have made a secret of it."

Duncan had been turning it over in his poor little mind. He formed ideas
very slowly, but there was often more sense in them when formed than in
the quick conclusions of cleverer children.

"But if Uncle Grosvenor is our father, Elsie, why don't we live with
him? He never's been to see us, never. He'd be sure to know Aunt Nannie
was our mother, and not--you know--'she.'"

"I believe," said Elsie, in a mysterious voice, "that 'R. Grosvenor'
thinks we're dead."

"Oh, Elsie! but we aren't at all," gasped Duncan.

"No, I shouldn't, think so. Doesn't the letter say they are weak and
delicate (what a beautiful letter it is, Duncan. I'm sure R. Grosvenor
is a grand gentleman), and 'bring them up with your own and a