ogether with Dr. Lacey, Mabel
Mortimer and Florence Woodburn were about to exchange the heat and dust of
the city for a cooler residence near the lake. The day before they left
was hot and sultry, and in the morning Julia sought the shade of a large
vine-wreathed summer house, which stood in the garden, near by the tree
under which Rondeau had buried his master's letter.

One word now about our old friend Rondeau. The buried letter had cost him
a world of trouble. He was constantly fearful lest he should be detected.
Particularly was he afraid that the author of the letter, failing to
receive an answer, would write again, and thus he might be exposed. Twice
had he dug up the epistle upon occasions when he fancied some one of his
master's letters bore a similar superscription. In this way he had become
tolerably familiar with Mr. Miller's handwriting, which was rather
peculiar, being a large, heavy, black hand.

On the morning when Julia was snugly esconced in the summer house, Rondeau
returned from the post office in great tribulation.

"What's up now?" asked Leffie, whom Rondeau drew aside, with a dolefully
grave face.

"Nothing's up," answered Rondeau, "but the letter has got to come up! I
ain't going to feel like I was a whipped dog any longer. I'll confess all
to Marster George, for see, here's another like the buried one." So
saying, he held up Mrs. Carrington's letter, on the envelope of which was
Mr. Miller's writing.

Leffie offered no remonstrance, and as Aunt Dilsey just then screamed for
her, Rondeau went alone to the garden and proceeded to disinter the buried
document. 'Twas but the work of a moment, and could Julia have been
cooling herself in Greenland, as she ought to have been, all would have
ended well. And now I suppose some indignant reader will say, "Why didn't
you put her in Greenland, then, or some worse place?" But patience,
patience, a little longer. You would have us tell things just as they
were, I suppose, so we must not only suffer Miss Julia to be in the summer
house, but we must also allow her to be a spectator of Rondeau's
proceedings.

She was greatly surprised when she saw him take from the cigar box a much
soiled, yellowish-looking letter, and she could not help feeling that in
some way it concerned herself. Suddenly appearing, she startled Rondeau by
saying, "What are you doing? Whose is that? Give it to me."

Rondeau was anxious to conceal from her his long-buried treasure, an