Stephen stooped down, and drew out the loose board. "Under there,"
said he; and pointed in.

They could all see the folded paper, with the drifts of dust upon it,
just as it had lain for almost a year.

"It has been there ever since the day of the September Gale, father,"
he said. "The day, you know, that grandfather was here."

"Don't you remember the wind and the papers?" said Ruth. "It was
remembering that, that put it into our heads. I never thought of the
cracks and--" with a little, low, excited laugh--"the 'total depravity
of inanimate things,' till--just a little while ago."

She did not say a word about that bright boy at West Point, now,
before them all.

Uncle Roderick reached in with the crook of his cane, and drew
forward the packet, and stooped down and lifted it up. He shook off
the dust and opened it. He glanced along the lines, and at the
signature. Not a single witnessing name. No matter. Uncle Roderick is
an honest man. He turned round and held it out to father.

"It is your deed of gift," said he; and then they two shook hands.

"There!" said Ruth, tremulous with gladness. "I knew they would. That
was it. That was why. I told you, Stephen!"

"No, you didn't," said Stephen. "You never told me anything--but
cats."