She studied the name on the envelope. George Trescott Benedict, 2----

Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Penn. The letters were large and angular, not

easy to read; but she puzzled them out. It did not look like his writing.

She had watched him as he wrote the old woman's address in his little red

book. He wrote small, round letters, slanting backwards, plain as print,

pleasant writing to read. Now the old woman's address would never be of

any use, and her wish that Elizabeth should travel alone was fulfilled.

There was a faint perfume from the envelope like Weldwood flowers. She

breathed it in, and wondered at it. Was it perfume from something he

carried in his pocket, some flower his lady had once given him? But this

was not a pleasant thought. She put the envelope into her bosom after

studying it again carefully until she knew the words by heart.

Then she drew forth the papers of her mother's that she had brought from

home, and for the first time read them over.

The first was the marriage certificate. That she had seen before, and had

studied with awe; but the others had been kept in a box that was never

opened by the children. The mother kept them sacredly, always with the

certificate on the top.

The largest paper she could not understand. It was something about a

mine. There were a great many "herebys" and "whereases" and "agreements"

in it. She put it back into the wrapper as of little account, probably

something belonging to her father, which her mother had treasured for old

time's sake.

Then came a paper which related to the claim where their little log home

had stood, and upon the extreme edge of which the graves were. That, too,

she laid reverently within its wrapper.

Next came a bit of pasteboard whereon was inscribed, "Mrs. Merrill Wilton

Bailey, Rittenhouse Square, Tuesdays." That she knew was her grandmother's

name, though she had never seen the card before--her father's mother. She

looked at the card in wonder. It was almost like a distant view of the

lady in question. What kind of a place might Rittenhouse Square be, and

where was it? There was no telling. It might be near that wonderful Desert

of Sahara that the man had talked about. She laid it down with a sigh.

There was only one paper left, and that was a letter written in pale

pencil lines. It said: "My dear Bessie: Your pa died last week. He was killed falling

from a scaffold. He was buried on Monday with five carriages and

everything nice. We all got new black dresses, and have enough

for a stone. If it don't cost too much, we'll have an angle on

the top. I always thought an angle pointing to heaven was nice.

We wish you was here. We miss you very much. I hope your husband

is good to you. Why don't you write to us? You haven't wrote

since your little girl was born. I s'pose you call her Bessie

like you. If anything ever happens to you, you can send her to

me. I'd kind of like her to fill your place. Your sister has

got a baby girl too. She calls her Lizzie. We couldn't somehow

have it natural to call her 'Lizabeth, and Nan wanted her called

for me. I was always Lizzie, you know. Now you must write soon.




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