requested an interview at Miss Redmond's earliest convenience.

Holding the half-opened sheets in her hand, the lady closed her eyes
and sat motionless, as if in the grasp of an absorbing thought. With
the disappearing child, the signs of life on the hillside had
diminished. The traffic of the street passed far below, the sharp
click-click of a pedestrian now and then sounded above, but no one
passed her way. The hum of the city made a blurred wash of sound, like
the varying yet steady wash of the sea. As she opened her eyes again,
she saw that the twilight had perceptibly deepened. Far away, lights
began to flash out in the city, as if a million fireflies, by twos and
threes and dozens, were waking to their nocturnal revelry.

On the hill the light was still good, and the lady turned again to her
reading. The other letter was written on single sheets of thin paper
in an old-fashioned, beautiful hand. Wherever a double-s occurred, the
first was written long, in the style of sixty years ago; and the whole
letter was as easily legible as print. Across the top was written: "To
Agatha Redmond, daughter of my ward and dear friend, Agatha Shaw
Redmond"; and below that, in the lawyer's choppy handwriting, was a
date of nearly a year previous. As Agatha Redmond read the second
letter, a smile, half of sadness, half of pleasure, overspread her
countenance. It ran as follows:


"ILION, MAINE.

"MY DEAR AGATHA:

"I take my pen in hand to address you, the daughter of the dearest