"
After father and mother were gone, Louis sat with me in our
sitting-room, while Clara absented herself on the plea of something very
particular to attend to. I mistrusted what it might be, and looked at
her smilingly. "My Emily guesses it," she said, "something for the
little lamb. Emily will help me too, have I not said it?" and she passed
like a sweet breath from the room.
"Now Louis," I said, as we sat together on the old sofa,--our
old-fashioned people called it "soffy,"--"let us look at that letter."
He produced it from the pocket where it had lain in waiting, and we
read. Many lines were illegible entirely, but together we deciphered
much of it. "The baby is dead--she was beautiful, and if (here were two
words we could not make out), it would have been so nice (then two lines
blurred and indistinct, and another broken sentence). Where can your
letters ---- I am sure you write. If ---- then I shall go to find ----.
My father will give us ----" and from all these grief-laden sentences,
we gathered a story that struck us both as being almost made to coincide
with that of the poor lamb.
"Louis," I said, "if this is the very Mary, what shall we do?"
"We will do right and let problems be solved as best they can. First let
us understand about ourselves, then we can better act for others. How
did Mr. Benton annoy you?"
Then I told him.
"And you did not even think you loved him?"
"Louis," I cried, "how could you think so, when my heart has been yours
always? How could you think of me in that light?" And those old tears
came into my eyes.
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