mind, however, there is nothing in the least ludicrous in the sight. She
only notes the panting breath, and says, with a touch of impatience in
her anxiety--

"Why will you persist in toiling up and down those horrid stairs,
instead of sending me, Brightie? It is really very unkind of you."

When Brightie has delivered up Hazel's envelope, with its scrawled
direction, she retires into her own room, next door, and shuts herself
in. She is filled with an unwonted excitement, for she holds a second
letter in her hand, and it is her own. The rarest thing it is for her to
have a letter, and the post-mark is "Firdorf," the very same beautiful
country place for which she had pined; there she and Janie, her only
sister, had lived together, and Janie had died there. The hands, aged
with work and deprivation more than with time, shake as they break the
seal, the aged eyes grow dim again and again as they read.

It is fully three parts of an hour before Brightie has got through the
letter--not that the words are many or hard to understand; but rather
that the hindrances are many. The glasses of the large spectacles grow
so misty from time to time that they require polishing. Then, too, Miss
Bright's mind exhibits foolish tendencies, refusing to grasp the meaning
of the words, and causing her to explain that she must be dreaming; and
still further she is carried back in mind to days long since vanished,
and scenes long unvisited, and these detain her long. But at last she
rouses herself--has at length fairly accepted the astonishing good news
her letter contains, and, with it open in her hand, hastens off to
communicate the same to her young friend.

Hazel's door is locked, and Miss Bright has to wait a moment before it