not of his heart. Thus accoutred,
he prowled about on the lower floor, looking after various things, and,
going into the pantry for something, he chanced to look through the small
window used for the transmission of dishes from the next room, and saw
Parsons holding a pile of letters one by one over a steaming kettle.
Unconscious of his proximity, the respectable Parsons dexterously and
neatly opened several envelopes with a practised hand, and then
transferred the letters to her pocket, to be enjoyed at her leisure, after
which she laid hold of the kettle and retired into the kitchen beyond.

"Well, upon my word, if that isn't the coolest thing I ever saw!"
exclaimed Mr. Ketchum mentally, and, feeling that he had made a great
discovery, was at first for sharing it immediately with Parsons's mistress;
but on reflection he thought differently. "It is her funeral: I guess I
had better not meddle: there would be a great scene," he thought. "At any
rate, I'll wait until they are leaving before putting her on her guard."
He went back to the dining-room to his newspaper, and sat there until the
others came down.

Miss Noel was not long in the room before an idea struck her. "Did you not
say that your post-bag containing the night's mail would be sent over this
morning?" she asked.

"I did. It came about an hour ago," said Mr. Ketchum.

"How very nice! I hope there may be something for me. It is so very trying
to get no news from England," said Miss Noel.

"Why, Mabel had twenty-three letters laid aside for you until you should
come. Didn't she give them to you?" asked Mr. Ketchum. "Were none of those
from England?"

"Oh, yes. But that was three days since, and I've heard nothing for a
fortnight. If Parsons has _quite_ finished with the letters, I suppose I
may as well have them. And she must be, by this. Would you kindly ring and
send for them?" said Miss Noel.

"What! you know that she reads your letters?" exclaimed Mr. Ketchum,
surprised.

"Oh, dear, yes. They all do. It is very tiresome, but they will do it.
Parsons is generally good enough to let me have them quite promptly; but
she reads them, of course,--all but my cousin Blanche Best's letters.
Blanche has always been my most intimate friend, and can't bear the idea:
so she blocked the game by a most ingenious device. She writes one
sentence in French, the next in Italian, the third in English,--at least
she did until a happier plan suggested itself: now she