n a
magnificent sleigh. I was just taking my walk in the corridor as he
came up the stairs and here is his card,"--she searched in her
reticule--"which he left for you."

Frank took the card and read. "Arthur Fredericks." "Oh, I am sorry," he
said, really regretting his loss. "When was he here?"

"Oh, just at noon precisely, when most Christians are eating their
dinner," she replied. "And the postman has been here too and brought a
letter for you. Oh, dear, where is it now? Where could I have put it?"
And she turned about and began to look for it, first on the table among
the pieces of silk paper and then on the floor, assisted by the young
man.

"What did the letter look like, dearest Aunt?"

"Blue--or gray--blue, I think," she replied, all out of breath, turning
out the contents of her red silk reticule. She brought out a mass of
rose-buds and an immense handkerchief edged with lace, but nothing
else.

"Was the letter small or large?" he inquired from behind the sofa.

"Large and thick," gasped Aunt Rosalie. "Such a thing never happened to
me before in my life--it is really dreadful." And with astounding
agility she turned over the things on the consumptive little piano and
tossed the antique sheets of music about.

"Perhaps it got into the stove, Auntie."

"No, no, it has not been unscrewed since this morning."

Frank Linden went to the bell and rung. "Don't take any more trouble
about it, Auntie, the letter is sure to turn up; let the maid look for
it."

Dorothy came and looked, and looked behind all the furniture, and
shaking out all the curtains--but in vain.

"Well, we will give it up," declared Linden at length--"I suppose it is
a letter from my mother or from the Judge--I can ask them what they had
to say. Let us drink our coffee. Auntie."

"I shan't sleep the whole night," declared the little old lady in much
excitement.

"O don't think any more about it," he begged her, good-humoredly. "I am
sure there was nothing of any great importance in it. Tell me some of
your old stories now, they will just suit this weather."

But the wrinkled face under the great cap still wore an anxious look,
and the dim eyes kept straying away from the coffee cups searchingly
round the room, lingering thoughtfully on the green lamp-shade.
Evidently there was no hope of a conversation with her. After awhile
the young man rose to go to his own room.

"Yes, go, go," she said, relieved, "and then I can think where I