etter to read, soiled and torn with the handling of many
years and signed John Silverthorn Brainard. Then something in me woke
and I stared at this signature, growing more and more excited as I
realized that this was not the first time I had seen it, that somewhere
and in circumstances which brought a nameless thrill I had looked upon
it before and that--it was not one remembrance but many which came to
me. What the spoken name had not recalled came at the sight of this
written one. Bess! there was her long and continued watch over the house
once entered by her on any and every pretext, but now shunned by her
with a secret terror which could not disguise her longing and its
secret attraction; her certificate of marriage; the name on this
certificate--the very one I was now staring at--John Silverthorn
Brainard! Had I struck an invaluable clue? Had I, through the weakness
and doting fondness of this poor woman, come upon the one link which
would yet lead us to identify this hollow-hearted, false and most
vindictive man of great affairs with the wandering and worthless husband
of the nondescript Bess, whose hand I had touched and whose errand I had
done, little realizing its purport or the influence it would have upon
our lives? I dared not believe myself so fortunate; it was much too like
a fairy dream for me to rely on it for a moment; yet the possibility
was enough to rouse me to renewed effort. After we had returned to
Miss Thankful's side, I asked her, with an apology for my inexhaustible
curiosity, if she still felt afraid of the thread and needle woman
across the way.

The answer was a little sharp.

"It is Charity who is afraid of her," said she. She had evidently
forgotten her own extravagant words to me on this subject. "Charity is
timid; she thinks because this woman once hung over our brother, night
and day, that she knew about this money and had persuaded herself that
she has some right to it. Charity is sometimes mistaken, but she has
some reason, if it is inadequate, for this notion of hers. That woman,
since her dismissal after my brother's death, has never really quit this
neighborhood. She worked next door in any capacity she could, whenever
any of the tenants would take her; and when they would not, sewed or
served in the houses near by till finally she set up a shop directly
opposite its very door. But she'll never get these bonds; we shall pay
her what is her due, but she'll never get any more."

"