"It is so very long since I had a letter all to myself, that I wonder
how it would seem," Anna rejoined. "I have not had one since--since--"
"The day I came there was one for you," said Adah, while Anna looked
wonderingly at her, saying, "You are mistaken, I'm sure. I've no
remembrance of it. A letter from whom?"
Adah did not know from whom or where. She only knew there was one, and
by way of refreshing Anna's memory, she said: "Jim put it with the others on the table, and it fell behind the
curtain, where I found it in the afternoon. I was bringing it to you
myself, but your mother took it from me and said she would carry it up
while I swept the parlor. Surely you remember now."
No, Anna did not, and she looked so puzzled that Adah, anxious to set
the matter right, continued: "I remember it particularly, because it was spelled A-n-n-i-e instead of
Anna."
Adah was not prepared for the sudden start, the look almost of terror in
Anna's eyes, or for the color which stained the usually colorless face.
In all the world there was but one person who ever called her Annie, or
wrote it so, and that person was Charlie. Had he written at last, and if
so, why had she never known it? Could it be her proud mother had
withheld what would have been life to her slowly dying daughter? It was
terrible to suspect such a thing, and Anna struggled to cast the thought
aside, saying to Adah. "Was there anything else peculiar about it?"
"Nothing, except that 'twas inclosed in a mourning envelope, sealed with
wax, and the letter on the seal was--was--"
"Oh, pray think quick. You have not forgotten. You must not forget," and
Anna's soft blue eyes grew dark with intense excitement as Adah tried to
recall the initial on that seal.
"She had not noticed particularly, she did not suppose it was important.
She was not certain, but she believed--yes, she was nearly sure--the
letter was 'M.'"
"Oh, you do not know how much good you have done me," Anna cried, and
laying her throbbing head on Adah's neck, she wept a torrent of tears,
wrung out by the knowing that Charlie had not forgotten her quite. He
had written, and that of itself was joy, even though he loved another.
"The initial was 'M.'--you are sure, you are sure," she kept whispering,
while Adah soothed the poor head, wondering at Anna's agitation, and in
a measure guessing the truth, the old story, love, whose course had not
run smoothly.
"And mother took it," Anna said at last, growing more composed.
"Yes, she said she would bring it to you," was Adah's reply.