odd legend attached to it; when she broke off abruptly, and uttered an exclamation that instantly drew my atten tion. She was holding a letter up to the light—a large, thick letter, written on a sheet of extraordinary size, and folded and sealed as was customary before envelopes came. into use. The paper was yellow as parchment, and the seal was unbroken.

"If that don't beat all!" she cried.

"Here I've found

a letter stuck fast in the crack between the back and the bottom of that drawer; and the direction is in Horace's handwriting; and it's never been opened! And he died fifteen year ago, last spring! Can you make out that direction, Miss Frost? My spectacles don't seem to see quite so well as they used to."

I took the letter, and read, "Frederick Thorne, Esq., No. 49 Street, New Orleans.".

'Why, that's stranger yet!" exclaimed she, staring at me in great amaze. "That must be Mrs. Thorne's husband, who died eight or ten year ago, at least,—and I never heard Horace mention his name, and didn't suppose he knew him! A letter from a dead man to a dead man, and the seal never broke-it's not quite comfortable!" And Mrs. Divine looked around as if she half-expected one or the other of the interested parties to gather up his bones and his ashes, and whatever shadowy habiliments came to hand, and come forth from the dimmest corner of the garret to claim his forgotten property.

"What's the use of wasting so much time on the outside?" demanded Mrs. Prescott, impatiently. “Open it, and see what is in it."

Mrs. Divine looked at her, meditatively. "I don't feel certain I've got any right to do that," she answered slowly; "I reckon Mrs. Thorne or Rick's got the best right to open Mr. Thorne's letters."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Prescott,-"when the person the letter is written to, is dead, it's always sent back to the writer."

"When he's alive," returned Mrs. Divine,-" but, you see, Horace ain't. And it's beat into my mind, somehow, that he never wrote to Mr. Thorne, except on Thorne's own business. And I don't feel no call to pry into that man's affairs, dead or alive."

Mrs. Prescott launched another suggestion.

"Most

likely Horace concluded not to send it, after 'twas written."

Mrs. Divine gave it a momentary consideration, and shook her head. "If he had, he would have destroyed it. No, no, Priscilla; either he thought 'twas sent; or he was taken away before he had a chance to send it. You remember he died on a return voyage, within sight of port."

The matter was finally referred to Uncle True. Having turned the letter over and over, spelled out its address, weighed it on his palm, and balanced it on his forefinger, the wood-pile philosopher decided thus:

"If a man's doin's died with him, and was buried five foot under ground, as he is,—the best thing to do with such a letter as this, 'ud be to put it right inter the middle of a good, hot fire, and look t'other way while the ashes was agoin' up chimney. But we're all links in a chain, and it don't do to let go of one on 'em till it's hitched on to another. A man's papers gen'rally does that. There's one chance to nine that this letter was meant to do suthin' o' that sort. And we mustn't send that chance a scurryin' up chimney in smoke. Put on your bonnet, Hannah, and go up to Mis' Thorne, and you and she open the letter together."

Mrs. Divine looked aghast. "Land sakes! I can't do any such thing! I'm right in the thick of soapmaking."

"Wall, send Priscilly, then."

It was Mrs Prescott's turn to demur.

"What! and leave all that muss on the stairs and up garret! Not for forty letters! I shan't stop and dress up

till I'm through, and that won't be before night. Besides, I don't know Mrs. Thorne, and I don't want to."

Mrs. Prescott, be it understood, is not one whit less fastidious about her acquaintance, in her own way, than Mrs. Thorne herself.

There was a moment of perplexed silence. Curious as the party undeniably were, their curiosity was not to be gratified at the expense of personal integrity, nor of household order. Well," said Mrs. Divine at last, "it must wait till tomorrow, then." And she turned slowly away.

66

Uncle True looked dissatisfied, and scratched his head reflectively. "It strikes me that a letter that has waited fifteen year to be opened, has waited about long enough,' said he. "News and peaches often spile by keepin' just a leetle too long. I'd go up thar myself, only my old chair ain't able to travel quite so fur. Perhaps Miss Frost 'ud do it, now; she's allers obligin'. Besides, she knows Mis' Thorne. She'd do up the bus'ness right, and bring us hum a full report."

And as this plan seemed best to satisfy the homely uprightness of the parties,―leaving a way open for the speedy gratification of curiosity, or interest, without interfering with the day's labors,-it was decided upon.

I found Mrs. Thorne in her old place, at her old occupation. She listened to my communication attentively, and then fell into a fit of profound thought;-apparently she was digging deep into her recollections, and weighing the letter's possibilities with extreme care. Rousing herself, she took up her work again, with something like a sigh, and said wearily;-"It is probably some unimportant matter of business. Mr. Thorne was once, for a short time, in a shipping house. Oblige me by opening the letter and reading it aloud."

To enable you to understand its contents better than I did, I give you, in advance, the explanations with which Mrs. Thorne favored me after the reading.

When she married Mr. Thorne, he was the presumptive heir of his uncle, Marcus Thorne, a moderately wealthy and immoderately eccentric bachelor. The marriage, however, or the bride, or something, for she did not make this point quite clear, so displeased the uncle as to cause a partial estrangement; which continued, with little diminution, till her husband's death. Up to this period she believed that the old gentleman had contemplated no other disposal of his property; but after that event she had heard of his making some efforts to learn the fate or the whereabouts of one Cyrus Thorne,-an elder half-brother of her husband, who had put the seal to a reckless youthful career by committing some petty crime, and then running off to sea; since which time he had never been heard of, and was believed to be dead. Nothing came of them, however, and Mrs. Thorne had quietly settled down to the belief that her son's prospects were bright and sure; when, two or three years afterward, Marcus Thorne went to his kindred dust. The reading of his will disturbed that conviction. After providing for Rick's college expenses, and naming a certain sum to be paid to Carrie on her wedding-day, or, failing that, on her twenty-fifth birthday; it left the bulk of his property in trust for Cyrus Thorne, or his heirs, who were to be sought for with all speed and diligence. Whenever undeniable evidence of their death was forthcoming, it might be divided between Rick and Carrie in proportions specified by the will;-an instrument inspired, it would seem, partly by a latent affection for the runaway, and partly by a bitter determination that none of his property should ever pass into Mrs. Thorne's possession.

Twelve years had elapsed. Cyrus Thorne, or his heirs were still to be heard of, and Mrs. Thorne had grown old in suspense, longing, resentment, and despair.

Imagine, then, how her eyes first gloomed, and then sparkled, as she listened to Captain Hart's letter, which was long, and which I epitomize for you.

The honest seaman wrote that he believed it to be his duty to inform Mr. Thorne that, in a small seaport of Southern Italy, into which he had been driven by stress of weather; he had encountered a pale, sombre, consumption-stricken man, who had made himself known to him as Cyrus Thorne. He had with him a child,—a motherless girl,—his love for whom seemed to be the sole sentiment of his waning life; and whose future engrossed his thoughts. Would Captain Hart touch there on his return? If he were still alive, he would embark with him for America; if not, he would find the child at his lodgings, with full powers and instructions for conveying her to her relatives.

The Captain did “touch,” and was greatly shocked to learn that Cyrus Thorne had died very suddenly of hemorrhage within a few days of his departure. So suddenly, indeed, that he had had no opportunity to give any directions concerning the child; and her nurse had finally surrendered her to the charge of an American gentleman, who had stopped in the town for a few days with his family; and whose interest in the orphan was, doubtless, heightened by the fact that his own little daughter was about the same age. He had promised to find out her friends, if possible; if not, to take kind care of her future. But the nurse went on to state that the party went up to Sondrio, and that she had learned through a friend employed as a servant in the principal inn that the child had sickened and died there. To enable Mr. Thorne to satisfy himself of the truth of this story, Captain Hart had taken pains to find out, by dint of patient inquiry in the town, that the said gentleman was from Philadelphia, and that his name was But here I was completely at fault. The Captain's hand was crabbed and difficult enough, in straightforward sentences; and names, to which the context gives no clue, are always most puzzling in manuscript. By dint of united effort, we made out the Christian name to be Chester; but the surname was absolutely undecipherable. Mrs. Thorne thought it looked