a part of the daily work; that the
_Star_ must be preserved, and that it was incumbent upon her to do it.

In those days I was often at her home, sometimes walking from the office
with her and the old Captain, sometimes with the old Captain, sometimes
alone with Anthy. She was not naturally very talkative, especially, as I
found, with one she knew well and trusted; but I think I have never
known any other human being who seemed so much alive just underneath.

It was on one of these never-to-be-forgotten evenings in the old library
of her father's house, with the books all around, that I came first into
Anthy's deeper life. A draft from an open door stirred the picture of
Lincoln on the wall above the mantelpiece, and a letter, slipping from
behind it, dropped almost at my feet. I stooped and picked it up and
read the writing on the envelope:

"_To Abraham Lincoln._"

Anthy's attention had been momentarily diverted to the door, and she did
not see what had happened.

"A letter to Lincoln," I said aloud, turning it over in my hand.

I shall never forget how she turned toward me with a quick intake of her
breath, the colour in her face, and her hand slowly lifting to her
breast. She took a step toward me, and I, knowing that I had somehow
touched a deep spring of her life, held out the letter. A moment we
stood thus, a moment I can never forget. Then she said in a low voice:

"Read it, David."

I cut the envelope and read the letter to Lincoln, and knew that Anthy
had opened a way into her confidence for me that had never before been
opened to any one else.

"David," she said, "I wanted you to know. In some ways you have come
closer to me than any one else except my father."

She said it without embarrassment, straight at me with clear eyes. I
was like her father. I understood.

[Illustration: _After that she opened her heart more and more to me--a
little here, a little there_]

I begged that letter of her, and others written both before and after,
and keep them in the securest part of my golden treasury. After that she
opened her heart more and more to me--a little here, a little there. I
waited for those moments, counted on them, tried to avoid the slightest
appearance of any jarring emotion, found them incomparably beautiful.
She gave me vivid glimpses of her early life, of the books she liked
best and the poetry, told me with enthusiasm of her college life and the
different girls who were her friends (sh