by boy, who had as yet no name. Sarah was
called "Princess," and her real name was never heard. She was the oldest,
and was my uncle's inseparable companion. She was a child of uncommon
thoughtfulness and tenderness. The other two were simply healthy, happy
little creatures, who gave no promise of being any more individual than
their serene, quiet mother.

I was spending the winter in the family, and going to school, and between
my uncle and me there had grown up an intimate and confidential friendship
such as is rare between a man of sixty and a girl of fifteen. I understood
him far better than his wife did; and his affection for me was so great
and so caressing that he used often to say, laughingly, "Nell, my girl,
you'll never have another lover like me!"

We were sitting at breakfast one morning when Princess came in, holding a
small letter in her hand.

"Look, papa mia!" she said; "see this queer old letter I found on the
cellar stairs. It looks a hundred years old."

My uncle glanced up, carelessly at first, but as soon as he saw the paper
he stretched out his hand for it, and looked eager. It did indeed seem as
if it were a hundred years old; yellow, crumpled, torn. It had been folded
in the clumsy old way which was customary before the invention of
envelopes; the part of the page containing the address had been torn out.
He read a few words, and the color mounted in his cheek.

"Where did you say you found it, Princess?" he said.

"On the cellar stairs, papa; I went down to find Fido, and he was playing
with it."

"What is it, Joseph?" said Aunt Sarah, in tones a shade more eager than
their wont.

"I do not know, my dear," replied my uncle; "it is very old," and he went
on reading with a more and more sobered face.

"Robert," said he, turning to the waiter, "do you know where this paper
could have come from? Have any old papers been carried down from the
garret, to light the fire in the furnace?"

"No, sir," said Robert, "not that I know, sir."

"There are whole barrels of old papers under the eaves in the garret,"
said Aunt Sarah; "I have always meant to have them burned up; I dare say
this came out of one of them, in some way;" and she resumed her habitual
expression of nonchalance.

"Perhaps so," said Uncle Jo, folding up the paper and putting it in his
pocket. "I will look, after breakfast."

She glanced up, again surprised, and said, "Why? is it of any importance?"

"Oh, no, no," said he ha