But even as the words died on her lips her reassurance departed. She would never get control of herself until she investigated. Why hadn’t she talked to Ellen that day and got this foolish curiosity off her mind? The woman would think it strange if she called on her at this late hour to return a twenty-year-old letter, even though it contained sacred memories. Yet why should Ellen think that? She would simply slip down and hand her the letter with some gay nonsense about it being better twenty years late than never, and if Ellen wasn’t tired and seemed talkative she would ask her about the coincidence of names. It was certainly no new thing in that house for Moira to do whimsical and unexpected things. She could come back and sleep and dream of her blessed Hal--poor Hal, he had hardly had a thought from her all day. The regular servants’ rooms were at the top of the house, but Ellen lived alone in the little wing off the kitchen. She had chosen this ground floor room because it was closer to the affairs that directly concerned her, outside and in, and because she was a privileged person, the dean of the servants. Moira’s visit then would disturb nobody. She drew her pretty gown about her and walked boldly downstairs, knocked, made a laughing request to be admitted and waited for the startled woman to put something around her and unlock the door. “Is this your letter, Ellen?” she asked. “I found it last night and meant to give it to you to-day, but forgot it. I thought you’d be so glad to get it back, I’d just come down and give it to you before I went to sleep. You see ... I read it--the date was so near my birthday.” Ellen opened the letter and read it through with apparent awkwardness and difficulty. “Why, Miss Moira, where did you get this? It’s been lost for years. I didn’t know it was in existence.” “I found it in a book upstairs.” “My land! How did it get there, I wonder?” “It was an old volume of Hugo’s--‘Les Misérables.’” The girl winced a little as Ellen repeated the name after her and mispronounced it schoolboy fashion. “Oh, yes, yes, I remember. That’s so many years ago. To think this letter has been there all that time!” “I didn’t know you had ever had a baby, Ellen. Tell me about it. Are you too sleepy?” “No, I’m not sleepy, Miss Moira--” Ellen’s politeness prompted the words, yet the girl caught a hint that she would have liked to end the conversation. “You--you startled me so,” she went on. “But--there isn’t anything to tell.” “Did she die?” “Yes, Miss Moira.” The fidgety excitement which seized the grey-haired woman was understandable on the ground of old memories being suddenly aroused. Moira’s voice expressed the tenderest sympathy. “How sad. She would have been such a comfort to you now.” “Yes. But that’s all so long ago, ma’am. It’s the way things happen in this world for some of us.” “And your husband? Is he dead, too?”