ven of refuge. She had not
known exactly what was in the letter she had tossed Miss Maitland, but
she had guessed sufficiently near to know its contents could not be
flattering to herself. Beneath her hiding hands her cheeks were flushing
with shame when she heard her name spoken with utmost gentleness and
affection.

"So you are John's only child! I should have known it without being
told, only it is so many, many years since he left me, a wild little lad
who found the old home too dull. He was not as close of kin as some
others I have reared here, and he was but fifteen when he went away. But
I have always loved him, and hoped for his return; and now--"

"Oh, my stars!" inadvertently exclaimed the Widow Sprigg, thus
disclosing the fact that she had been listening beyond the door.

"And now, Susanna, I smell your bread scorching," went on the mistress
as calmly as if the other had not betrayed herself. Then, when the
kitchen door had been slammed by the retreating hand-maiden, with an
emphasis that said as clearly as words that her mistress might go on and
talk, and things might happen enough to turn a body's head, for all she,
Susanna Sprigg, cared or noticed, so there! Miss Eunice left her own
seat, and, going around to Katharine's, gently drew the hiding hands
away from the troubled young face, and, putting the letter into them,
said: "There, my dear, read it."

"No, no! I can't! I won't! I hate it. I hate her, and
all--all--belonging to her! I never want to see or hear of her again.
And I won't stay. I see you don't want your legacy, and I'll go at once.
I have ten dollars, I can live--"

"Why, there's some mistake, little girl. This is from no 'her,' but--a
message from the dead."

The sudden break in the quiet old voice touched the listener more than
the words, and she mechanically took the letter as she repeated:

"A message from the dead? What can you mean?"

"Read it and see."

Then Katharine read what her idolized father had written many months
before, when the knowledge of his own approaching death had come to him;
and it seemed to her that it was his own voice saying:

"DEAR AUNT EUNICE:--For dear you are, notwithstanding all these
years of silence, during which your wild little lad has grown
into a busy, care-burdened man. That you heard of my first
marriage, and my wife's early death, leaving me with one little
girl--your legacy--I know; because that all happened befor