dust the top, where a row of school-books were arranged,
and presently came to the writing-tablet, which she was about to polish
off conscientiously. Suddenly she paused, stared, rubbed at something
with her duster, and bending close, stared again. In a moment she raised
her head and called in a low voice:

"Cynthia, come here!" Cynthia, who had been carefully dusting the
college trophies on the mantel, hurried to her side.

"What is it? What have you found?" Joyce only pointed to a large sheet
of paper lying on the blotter. It was yellow with age and covered with
writing in faded ink,--writing in a big, round, boyish hand. It began,--

"My dearest Mother--" Cynthia drew back with a jerk, scrupulously
honorable, as usual. "Ought we to read it, Joyce? It's a letter!"

"I did," whispered Joyce. "I couldn't help it for I didn't realize what
it was at first. I don't think it will harm. Oh, Cynthia, _read_ it!"
And Cynthia, doubting no longer, read aloud:

MY DEAREST MOTHER,--the best and loveliest thing in my life,--I
leave this last appeal here, in the hope that you will see it
later, read it, and forgive me. We have had bitter words, but I am
leaving you with no anger in my heart, and nothing but love. That
we shall not see each other again in this life, I feel certain.
Therefore I want you to know that, to my last hour, I shall love
you truly, devotedly. I am so sure I am right, and I have pledged
my word. I cannot take back my promise. I never dreamed that you
feel as you do about this cause. My mother, my own mother, forgive
me, and God keep you.

Your son,
FAIRFAX.

When Cynthia had ended, there was a big lump in Joyce's throat, and
Cynthia herself coughed and flourished a handkerchief about her face
with suspicious ostentation. Suddenly she burst out:

"I think that woman must have had a--a heart of _stone_, to be so
unforgiving to her son--after reading this!"

"_She never saw it!_" announced Joyce, with a positiveness that made
Cynthia stare.

"_Well!_-- I'd like to know how you can say a thing like that!" Cynthia
demanded at once. "It lay right there for her to see!"

"How do you account for this room being locked?" parried Joyce,
answering the question, Yankee fashion, by asking another. Cynthia
pondered a moment.

"I _don't_ account for it! But--why, of course! The boy locked it after
him when he went away, and took the key with him!" Joyce reg