Half an hour after, her reading finished, she took the box to a large table standing in the bay window, and began her work. It was no easy task to put that promiscuous assortment in order. There were bills of all kinds, letters and notes, and memoranda, all mixed with loose papers and envelopes. She at length succeeded in finding the operetta, and then proceeded to arrange and tie up the letters, bills and other documents so that they need not get mixed again. She had nearly finished her task, and the bundles were all neatly arranged in the box, when, taking up a small package, the wrapper suddenly gave way, and several little notes and papers fell scattering into her lap. They were directed to different persons, and all in different handwriting, and Brownie could not help wondering how they happened to be in Lady Randal’s possession. She began to gather them up, pondering upon the singular circumstance, yet too honorable to take advantage of her opportunity and gratify her curiosity, when her eye fell upon a note, the corner of which had been doubled back, revealing the writing within. The writing, though, irregular, as if a trembling hand had traced it, had a strangely familiar look as she glanced at it. It had been written with a pencil, and was not very distinct. Bending closer, Brownie discovered the words, “repentant Meta.” A thrill of intense pain ran through every nerve, and, without stopping to consider that she had no moral right to do so, she unfolded the paper—it was yellow and old, and only folded once—and began to read. Scarce had her eye swept over the few words written within, when every vestige of color faded from her cheeks and lips, while her eyes burned with a fierce, vengeful light. She had heard of that little note before. How well she remembered the pain in that dear old face, the quivering of those sweet, pale lips, and the note of mortal anguish in the loved voice which had told her of this little message which had never accomplished its mission. In her mind she went back nearly fifty years, and saw a beautiful young girl, lying pale and sick in a lofty room, a deep scar upon her fair temple, but a deeper pain looking forth from the sad eyes, as she watched eagerly for the sound of a footstep which never came. Yes, it was the very note—that anguished, repentant cry, which Miss Mehetabel had sent from the depths of her soul to the man she had loved! “Yes, come at once, if you can forgive your repentant “META.” How well she remembered the words, and now she had found them, as her aunt had told her, in the possession of Helen Capel, now Lady Randal. They had been kept back from the honest, faithful lover, who was only waiting for this permission to fly to the side of his betrothed and comfort her, by the hand of this treacherous woman, who had thus ruthlessly wrecked a human life, yea, two lives!