it is a real love letter.
All the love is there yet. When I took it in my hands it all came out
to me, sweet and strong. Like--like the scent of something keen,
fragrant, on a swift wind. I can't explain it!"

"You explain it very beautifully," gravely. "I can quite understand that
love might be like that."

"Can you?" with a pleased smile. "And can you understand how I feel it?
I can feel things in people, too. Love and hate and envy and all kinds
of things. I never say so. I used to, but people did not like it. They
always looked queer, or got angry. They seemed to think I had no right
to see inside of them. So I soon pretended not to see anything. But a
letter doesn't mind. This one," swinging the crumpled paper swiftly
close to his face, "is glad I found it. Can't you feel it yourself?"

Callandar shook his head. "I am far too dull and commonplace for that!"
He smiled. "But I have no doubt it is all there, just as you say. Why
not? Our knowledge of such things is in its infancy."

Aunt Amy stroked the paper with gentle fingers. "Yes, yes, it is all
there," she murmured. "But I may have read it wrongly for all that. The
written words I mean. I can't help reading what I feel. Once I felt a
letter that was full of hate, dreadful! And I read quite shocking things
in it. But when Esther read it, it was just a polite note, beginning
'Dear' and ending 'Your affectionate friend."'

"It might have been very hateful for all that."

"But no one knew it. That is why I am so anxious always to know if I
read things right. Will you read this letter to me?"

"With pleasure--if I may."

"Oh, it doesn't belong to any one. It isn't Esther's because it's too
old and it begins 'Dearest wife' and it isn't Mary's because it isn't
Doctor Coombe's writing; so you see I thought it might not hurt anybody
if I pretended it was mine."

"No," gently, "I do not see why it would."

"I never had a love letter of my own. Or if I did I cannot find it. The
only thing I ever had with love in it was the ruby ring, and that--"

She checked herself suddenly; her small face freezing into such a mask
of tragedy that Callandar was alarmed. But to his quick "What is it?"
she returned no answer and the expression passed as quickly as it
had come.

When he held out his hand for the letter, she seemed to have forgotten
it. Her gaze had again grown restless and vague. It would do no good to
question further, the rare hour of confession was past.