vexed at the deliberation with which her son
was advancing toward the house.

But he came at last.

"Well, mother, I've got a letter--a letter from Philadelphia," he said.
"It isn't from Phil, for I know his writing."

"Give it to me, Jonas," said his mother, outwardly calm, but inwardly
excited.

"Do you know any one in Philadelphia, mother?"

"No."

She cut open the envelope and withdrew the inclosed sheet.

"Is there any money in it?" asked Jonas eagerly.

"No."

"Just my luck!" said Jonas sullenly.

"Wait a minute," said his mother. "If the letter is really important,
I'll give you twenty-five cents."

She read the letter, and her manner soon showed that she was deeply
interested.

We will look over her shoulders and read it with her:

"CONTINENTAL HOTEL, PHILADELPHIA, Feb. 5.

"DEAR MADAM:--

"I write to you on a matter of the greatest importance to my happiness,
and shall most anxiously await your reply. I would come to you in
person, but am laid up with an attack of rheumatism, and my physician
forbids me to travel.

"You are, as I have been informed, the widow of Gerald Brent, who
thirteen years since kept a small hotel in the small village of
Fultonville, in Ohio. At that date I one day registered myself as his
guest. I was not alone. My only son, then a boy of three, accompanied
me. My wife was dead, and my affections centered upon this child.
Yet the next morning I left him under the charge of yourself and your
husband, and pursued my journey. From that day to this I have not seen
the boy, nor have I written to you or Mr. Brent. This seems strange,
does it not? It requires an explanation, and that explanation I am ready
to give.

"To be brief, then, I was fleeing from undeserved suspicion.
Circumstances which I need not detail had connected my name with the
mysterious disappearance of a near friend, and the fact that a trifling
dispute between us had taken place in the presence of witnesses had
strengthened their suspicions. Knowing myself to be innocent, but
unable to prove it, I fled, taking my child with me. When I reached
Fultonville, I became alive to the ease with which I might be traced,
through the child's companionship. There was no resource but to leave
him. Your husband and yourself impressed me as kind and warm-hearted.
I was specially impressed by the gentleness with which you treated my
little Philip, and I felt that to you I could safely trust him. I did
not, however,