of the little cabinet with method, and she resolved to begin
with the large centre drawer. She pulled it open, and was surprised to
find that it was nearly empty.

A few papers, on which verses and quotations from Books of Sermons
were copied in her mother's hand-writing, lay about; these, and one
parcel which was carefully wrapped up in soft white tissue-paper, were
the sole contents of the centre drawer. Primrose pulled the parcel
from where it lay half-hidden at the back of the drawer. She felt
self-possessed, but her fingers trembled slightly as she touched it.
It was folded up most carefully--the wrappings were kept in their
place by white satin ribbon, and on a slip of white paper which had
been placed on the top of the parcel, and secured by the ribbon,
Primrose read a few words:

"Arthur's little desk--for Primrose now."

She felt her color coming high, and her heart beating. Who was
Arthur?--she had never heard of him--her father's name had been John.
Who was the unknown Arthur, whose desk was now given to her?

She untied the parcel slowly, but with shaking fingers.

The little desk was a battered one, ink-stained, and of a slight and
cheap construction. Inside it contained one treasure, a thick letter,
with the words "For Primrose" written in her mother's writing on the
envelope.

An unexpected message from those who are dead will set the strongest
nerves quivering. At sight of this letter Primrose laid her pretty
yellow head down on the little old cabinet, and sobbed long and
bitterly.

How long she might have wept she could never say, but her tears were
suddenly brought to an abrupt termination. When she entered her
mother's room she had not locked the door, and now a voice sounded at
her elbow:

"Eh!--my word--dear, dear, deary me! Now, Miss Primrose, to think of
you creeping up like this, and 'worriting' yourself over the secrets
in the little bit of a cabinet. Your poor mamma knew what she was
about when she kept that cabinet locked, and for all the good they'll
ever do, she might well have burnt the bits of fallals she kept there.
There, darling, don't spoil your pretty eyes crying over what's dead
and gone, and can never be put right again--never. Shut up the
cabinet, Miss Primrose, and put your hair a bit straight, for Mrs.
Ellsworthy, from Shortlands, is down in the drawing-room, and wanting
to see you most particular 'bad.'"

CHAPTER VI.

MANY VISITORS.

Miss Martineau's plan