something belonging to her father, which her mother had treasured for old
time's sake.

Then came a paper which related to the claim where their little log home
had stood, and upon the extreme edge of which the graves were. That, too,
she laid reverently within its wrapper.

Next came a bit of pasteboard whereon was inscribed, "Mrs. Merrill Wilton
Bailey, Rittenhouse Square, Tuesdays." That she knew was her grandmother's
name, though she had never seen the card before--her father's mother. She
looked at the card in wonder. It was almost like a distant view of the
lady in question. What kind of a place might Rittenhouse Square be, and
where was it? There was no telling. It might be near that wonderful Desert
of Sahara that the man had talked about. She laid it down with a sigh.

There was only one paper left, and that was a letter written in pale
pencil lines. It said:

"_My dear Bessie:_ Your pa died last week. He was killed falling
from a scaffold. He was buried on Monday with five carriages and
everything nice. We all got new black dresses, and have enough
for a stone. If it don't cost too much, we'll have an angle on
the top. I always thought an angle pointing to heaven was nice.
We wish you was here. We miss you very much. I hope your husband
is good to you. Why don't you write to us? You haven't wrote
since your little girl was born. I s'pose you call her Bessie
like you. If anything ever happens to you, you can send her to
me. I'd kind of like her to fill your place. Your sister has
got a baby girl too. She calls her Lizzie. We couldn't somehow
have it natural to call her 'Lizabeth, and Nan wanted her called