Mrs. Westerfield took up the cipher once more. She looked at it
as if it were a living thing that defied her.

"If I am able to read this gibberish," she decided, "I know what
I'll do with the diamonds!"

4.--The Garret.

One year exactly after the fatal day of the trial, Mrs.
Westerfield (secluded in the sanctuary of her bedroom) celebrated
her release from the obligation of wearing widow's weeds.

The conventional graduations in the outward expression of grief,
which lead from black clothing to gray, formed no part of this
afflicted lady's system of mourning. She laid her best blue
walking dress and her new bonnet to match on the bed, and admired
them to her heart's content. Her discarded garments were left on
the floor. "Thank Heaven, I've done with you!" she said--and
kicked her rusty mourning out of the way as she advanced to the
fireplace to ring the bell.

"Where is my little boy?" she asked, when the landlady entered
the room.

"He's down with me in the kitchen, ma'am; I'm teaching him to
make a plum cake for himself. He's so happy! I hope you don't
want him just now?"

"Not the least in the world. I want you to take care of him while