tters which Josiah had opened as his last mortal act.

"I don't see anything in these that could have bothered him," said Miss
Cordelia, fearfully looking.

"What's this?" asked Miss Patty, picking up an empty envelope from the
floor.

It was post-marked "Rio de Janeiro" and the date showed that it had taken
three weeks to make the journey.

"I have some recollection of that writing," said Miss Cordelia.

"So have I," said Miss Patty in a low voice, "but where's the letter?"

Again it was she who made the discovery.

"That must be it," she said. "His ash tray is cleaned out every morning."

It was a large, brass tray and in it was the char of a paper that had
been burned. This ash still lay in its folds and across its surface,
black on black, could be seen a few lines which resembled the close of a
letter.

"Can you read it?" she asked.

Miss Cordelia bent over, and as a new angle of light struck the tray, the
words became as legible as though they had just been written.

"I thought I knew the writing," whispered Miss Cordelia, and lowering her
voice until her sister had to hang breathless upon the movement of her
lips, she added "Oh, Patty ... We all thought he was dead ... No wonder
it killed poor Josiah ..."

Their arms went around each other. Their glances met.

"I know," whispered Miss Patty, her lips suddenly gone dry, "....It was
from Paul...!"

CHAPTER XI

For the first few months after her father's death, Mary's dreams seemed
to fade into mist.

Between her and Josiah a bond of love had existed, stronger than either
had suspected--and now that he was gone the world seemed unaccountably
empty--and unaccountably cruel. As her father had gone, so must Aunt
Cordelia and Aunt Patty some day surely go ... Yes, and even Mary herself
must just as surely follow.

The immemorial doubt assailed her--that doubt which begins in
helplessness and ends in despair. "What's the use?" she asked herself.
"We plan and work so hard--like children making things in the sand--and
then Death comes along with a big wave and flattens everything out ...
like that ..."

But gradually her sense of balance began to return. One day she stood on
the brink of the hill looking at the great factory below, and a calmer,
surer feeling slowly swept over her.

"That's it," she thought. "The real things of life go on, no matter who
dies, just as though nothing had happened. Take the first Josiah Spencer
and look down th