not reply, and Daniel, with a long, inquiring look at him, said
"Good-morning," and went on his way.

"One is the seed-list," muttered Thomas to himself, as he retraced
his steps through the garden under the budding May-trees, "but it
passes my understanding to know who can have sent the other.
It--it can't be from--from her," he added, with sudden thought,
speaking as though it pained him even to put such a thought into
words.

The old cat, hearing his footsteps on the path, roused herself and
went out to meet him, but for once he paid no heed to her, and
passing into the house sat himself down in the chair by the window,
while he still gazed with troubled eyes at the outside of the
envelope, and the blurred post-mark which told him nothing.
Moments passed before he could summon up courage to open it, for in
his heart he felt almost certain who the writer was, and he dreaded
to read what might be written; and when at last he did make up his
mind, his hand trembled so as he tore open the envelope, that his
misty eyes could scarcely make out what was written, or take in the
meaning.

"Dear Father and Mother "--for seconds he was unable to read beyond
that beginning, so strange yet familiar it seemed after all these
years of silence--"I hope you will not refuse to open a letter from
me, and I hope that you will try to forgive me for all that's past,
and for what I am about to do. You would if you knew all. I wrote
to you and told you I had married Harry Lang. I hope you had the
letter and read it. I was happy enough for a time, but Harry has had
no work to speak of for more than a year, and though we've sold all