his first question was, "Have you
the papers?"

Quincy took the package from his pocket and placed it on the table
before him, remarking as he did so, "It must not be opened until
to-morrow morning, and then by the young lady herself."

The old man pushed the package away from him and turned a stern face
toward Quincy. "I yield obedience," said he, "to your wife's command,
but if one man or two stood now between me and my darling's child, I
would have their lives, if they tried to keep her from my arms for one
instant even."

After a little reflection he apologized for his vehement language, and
sought his room to think, and hope, and wait--but not to sleep.

The next morning, a little before nine o'clock, a carriage containing
two gentlemen stopped before a modest brick dwelling in West Forty-first
Street. A servant admitted them and showed them into the little parlor.
The room was empty. Quincy pointed to a sofa at the farther end of the
room, and Sir Stuart took a seat thereon. Quincy stepped into the entry
and greeted Celeste, who was just descending the stairs.

"Sir Stuart Fernborough is in your parlor," said he; "he may be, and I
hope to Heaven he is, your grandfather, but you must control your
feelings until you know the truth. Come and sit by me, near the window,
and read what is written in this package, so loud that he can hear every
word." As he said this he placed the package, which might or might not
prove her honorable heritage, in her hands.

They entered the room and took seats near the window. Celeste opened the
package with trembling fingers. As she did so that little telltale piece
of cloth, bearing the name "Linda Fernborough," once more fell upon the
floor. Quincy picked it up, and held it during the reading of the
letter, for a letter it proved to be.

It had no envelope, but was folded in the old-fashioned way, so as to
leave a blank space on the back of the last sheet for the address. The
address was, "Mr. Silas Putnam, Hanover, New Hampshire."

Celeste began to read in a clear voice: "Dear brother Silas."

"Is there no date?" asked Quincy.

"Oh, yes," replied Celeste, "March 18, 183--."

"Thirty years ago," said Quincy.

Celeste read on:

"DEAR BROTHER SILAS:--You will, no doubt, be surprised to find I
am in this town when I usually go to Gloucester or Boston, but the truth
is I had a strange adventure during my last fishing trip on the Polly
Sanders, and I thought I would come