f; I believe that all my previous
suspicions would have been aroused if she had. It _can't_ be that _she_
is Mona's child, for she has always been so indifferent when I have
questioned her. Possibly she may be a descendant of some other branch of
the family, and does not know it. My only regret is that I did not try to
see that other girl before Walter Dinsmore died; then I should have been
sure. I wonder where she can be? And to think that Mona Forester should
have had an uncle to turn up just at this time! I didn't suppose she had
a relative in the world besides the child."

Her musings were cut short at this point by the return of Mary with the
water. She poured out a glassful for her mistress, and then was told that
she might go.

The lady set down the glass without even tasting its contents; then
rising, went to the door and locked it, after which she walked to a small
table which stood in a bay-window, and removed the marble top, carefully
laying it upon the floor.

This act revealed instead of the usual skeleton stand where a marble top
is used a polished table of solid cherry, with what appeared to be a lid
in the top, and in which there was a small brass-bound key-hole.

Drawing a bunch of keys from her pocket, Mrs. Montague selected a tiny
one from among the others, inserted it in the lock, and the next moment
the lid in the table was lifted, thus revealing a secret compartment
underneath.

This was filled with various things--paper boxes, packages of various
forms and sizes, together with some documents and letters.

Drawing a chair before the table, the woman sat down and began to examine
the letters.

There was an intensely bitter expression on her face--a frown on her
brow, a sneer on her lips--which so disfigured it that scarcely any one
would have recognized her as the brilliant and beautiful woman of the
world who so charmed every one in society.

There were perhaps a dozen letters in the package which she took out of
the table, and these, as she untied the ribbon that bound them together,
and slipped them through her fingers, were all addressed in a delicate
and beautiful style of penmanship.

She snatched one from the others, and passionately tore it across,
envelope and all. Then she suddenly dropped them on her lap, a shiver
running over her, her cheek paling with some inward emotion.

"Ugh! they give me a ghostly feeling! My flesh creeps! I feel almost as
if Mona Forester herself were s