think she would be
willing."

The storm suddenly died away, and the peaceful silence around us was
almost as startling as the fierce gust had been before. I took it as an
omen that Esther did not refuse my wish, and I selected the four letters
which I most desired to keep. I took also the pomegranate blossom, and the
Edelweiss, and the crimson Amaranth from Bethlehem.

"I think Esther would rather that these should not be burned," I said.

"Yes; I think so too," replied Uncle Jo.

Then we laid the rest upon the fire. The generous hickory logs seemed to
open their arms to them. In a few seconds great panting streams of fire
leaped up and rushed out of our sight, bearing with them all that was
perishable of Esther Wynn's letters. Just as the crackling shadowy shapes
were falling apart and turning black, my uncle sprang to an Indian cabinet
which stood near, and seizing a little box of incense-powder which had
been brought from China by his brother, he shook a few grains of it into
the fire. A pale, fragrant film rose slowly in coiling wreaths and clouds
and hid the last moments of the burning of the letters. When the incense
smoke cleared away, nothing could be seen on the hearth but the bright
hickory coals in their bed of white ashes.

"I shall make every effort," said Uncle Jo, "to find out who lived in this
house during those years. I presume I can, by old records somewhere."

"Oh, uncle," I said, "don't. I think they would rather we did not know any
more."

"You sweet woman child!" he exclaimed. "You are right. Your instinct is
truer than mine. I am only a man, after all! I will never try to learn who
it was that Esther loved."

"I am very glad," he added, "that this happened when your Aunt Sarah was
away. It would have been a great weariness and annoyance to her to have
read these letters."

Dear, courteous Uncle Jo! I respected his chivalrous little artifice of
speech, and tried to look as if I believed he would have carried the
letters to his wife if she had been there.

"And I think, dear," he hesitatingly proceeded, "we would better not speak
of this. It will be one sacred little secret that you and your old uncle
will keep. As no more letters will be found on the stairs, the whole thing
will be soon forgotten."

"Oh yes, uncle," replied I; "of course it would be terrible to tell. It
isn't our secret, you know; it is dear Esther Wynn's."

I do not know why it was that I locked up those four letter