into the fire."

"My letter?"

"Yes; your letter."

"Let me look at it first."

"You had better not look at it, Catherine."

Naturally enough, Mrs. Linley remonstrated. "Surely I ought to
read a letter forwarded by my lawyer. Why are you hiding the
address from me? Is it from some person whose handwriting we both
know?" She looked again at her silent mother--reflected--and
guessed the truth. "Give it to me directly," she said; "my
husband has written to me."

Mrs. Presty's heavy eyebrows gathered into a frown. "Is it
possible," she asked sternly, "that you are still fond enough of
that man to care about what he writes to you?" Mrs. Linley held
out her hand for the letter. Her wise mother found it desirable
to try persuasion next. "If you really won't give way, my dear,
humor me for once. Will you let me read it to you?"

"Yes--if you promise to read every word of it."

Mrs. Presty promised (with a mental reservation), and opened the
letter.

At the two first words, she stopped and began to clean her