“Be we all mad together?” said Fuller. “What's the matter with the lad, i' the name o' wonder?” “I'll explain everything, sir,” answered Reuben, like a man awakening from sleep. “And yet I don't know that I can. I don't know that I have a right to explain. I could ask Ruth's advice. It's hard to know what to do in such a case.” “Theer's no such thing as a straight wescut i' the house, worse luck,” said Fuller. “Theer _is_ a clothesline, if that 'ud serve as well.” “May I see Miss Ruth, sir?” asked Reuben. “I'll tell you all about it if I can. But I think I have found out a very strange and mournful thing.” Fuller threw open the window and called “Ruth.” She came in slowly, and started when she saw Reuben there, and both she and he stood for a moment in some confusion. “Gi'e the wench a kiss and ha' done with it,” said Fuller. “Her's as ready as thee beest willin'.” Reuben acted on this sage counsel, and Ruth, though she blushed like a rose, made no protest. “Theer,” said papa, hugging his fat waistcoat, and rolling from the room. “Call me when I'm wanted.” He was not wanted for a long time, for the lovers had much to say to each other, as was only natural. First of all, Ruth shyly gave Reuben the letter she had written the night before, and he read it, and then there were questions to be asked and answered on either side, as--Did she really love him? And why? And since when? And had she not always known that he loved her? All which the reader shall figure out of his or her own experience or fancy; for these things, though delightful in their own time and place, are not to be written of, having a smack of foolishness with much that is tender and charming. Next--or rather interlaced with this--came Ruth's version of Aunt Rachel's curious behavior. And then said Reuben, “I think I hold the key to that. But whether I do or not remains to be seen. I found this in Manzini. You see how old it looks. The very pin that held it to the paper was rusted half through. You see,” turning it over, “it is addressed to Mr. Gold. I am afraid it was meant for my uncle, and that he never saw it. If it is a breach of faith to show it you I cannot help it. Read it, darling, and tell me what you think is best to be done.” Ruth read it, and looked up with a face pale with extreme compassion. “Reuben,” she said, “this is Aunt Rachel's handwriting. This is all her story.” She began to cry, and Reuben comforted her. “What can we do?” she asked, gently evading him. “Oh, Reuben, how pitiful, how pitiful it is!” “Should he have it after all these years?” asked Reuben. “What can it be but a regret to him?” “Oh yes,” she answered, with clasped hands and new tears in her eyes, “he must have it. Think of his poor spirit knowing afterwards that we had kept it from him?” “It will be a sore grief for him to see it. I fear so. A sore grief.”