ing with Ezra, but she had persuaded herself that
her tears resulted from nothing more than the shock she felt at meeting
an old repulsion. And since she had got to believe this, it followed as
a thing of course that Ruth ought also to have believed it. The girl's
pity wounded her and shamed her.

"Thank you," she said, in her chillest and primmest fashion, as she
withdrew from Ruth's embrace. "I am not in want of pity." It was in her
mind to tell Ruth to beware lest she herself should be in need of pity
shortly; but she suppressed herself at considerable cost, and walked on
stiffly and uncomfortably upright.

"I am very sorry, dear," said Ruth. "I did not mean to hurt you."

But Rachel was very indignant, and it was only as she remembered the
purloined letter that she consented to be appeased. After all, she had
taken the girl's welfare in hand, and had interested herself so kindly
in her niece's behalf that she could not bear to be angry with her.
So she permitted a truce to be called, and on Ruth's renewed apologies
asked graciously that no more should be said about the matter. They
parted at the green door of the garden, and Rachel, walking homeward,
pondered on one important question. Ought she or ought she not to know
the contents of the letter? Without knowing them, how could she know
exactly the length to which her niece and the intending worker of her
ruin had already gone together? It was necessary to know that, and she
slid her hand into the bosom of her dress, and held the letter there,
half resolving to read it on her arrival at home. But although, as her
theft of the letter itself would prove, her ideas of honor were quaint,
they were strong. She had constituted herself Niece Ruth's guardian, and
she meant to fulfil all her self-imposed duties to the letter, but there
was one whose rights came before her own. The letter should be opened
in the presence of Ruth's father, and the two authorities should consult
together as to what might be done.

She cast about for a safe and unsuspicious resting-place for the letter,
and at last decided upon the tea-caddy.

She placed it there, locked it up, and by the aid of a chair and a table
stowed it securely away in the topmost corner of a tall cupboard. Then,
having hidden the key in the parlor chimney, she went to bed and to
sleep, profoundly convinced that she had adopted the wisest of possible
courses, and that Niece Ruth would be saved in the morning.

Meant