CHAPTER LXIII. MARY ROGERS’ LETTER TO EDITH. Five days after the bridal party at Schuyler Hill Edith and Gertie sat together in the boudoir of the latter talking of the Providence which had thrown them so constantly together, and of the way in which they were at last made known to each other. “I have often thought of the night Mrs. Rogers died,” Edith said, “and I think there must have been something on her mind which she wished to tell me about you. Do you suppose she could have known you were my child?” “No, she could not have kept it so many years,” Gertie said, “and yet I can remember many things she used to say about my parentage, which I interpret differently now from what I did when my thoughts were all in another channel.” “One would have supposed that knowing as she must have known her liability to sudden death she would have left some writing which might throw light upon your history. You are sure she did not?” Edith said, and Gertie replied: “Yes, sure; or at least I think I am. Norah and I looked over everything carefully at the time, and there was nothing but a bundle of old letters and receipts.” “Did you destroy them?” Edith asked, and Gertie answered her: “No, I have them still in the box where I keep the souvenirs of my childhood. I’ll bring them, if you like, though I am quite sure that there is nothing in them.” The box was brought and opened, and Gertie began to examine the papers more carefully than ever before. There were dressmakers’ bills and grocers’ bills and landlords’ bills, and music bills for Gertie and letters to “John Rogers, Birmingham,” and then Gertie came upon a fresher-looking envelope, the seal of which had not been broken, and on which, in Mary Rogers’ hand, was written: “For Mrs. Edith Schuyler, if I die suddenly.” “Oh-h—yes—here—it must be this?” Gertie gasped, as she passed the package to Edith, whose heart beat with an undefined dread lest after all there might be some mistake and her darling be wrested from her. “Shall I read it, or you?” she said, and Gertie replied: “You;—but read aloud, if you please. I cannot wait to know.” Edith could not read it aloud, and Gertie did not wait, but leaning over her mother’s shoulder read the letter with her. It was as follows: “HAMPSTEAD, _April 10, 18—_. “MRS. COL. SCHUYLER—MADAME: Warned by a twinge in my heart and about my vitals that I may be taken away suddenly, I am going to commit to paper the true history of Gertrude Westbrooke, the girl known as my adopted child. Mrs. Schuyler, did you ever hear of a young girl,—who came one day with her mother to a dreary lodging in Dorset Street, London? They had the back rooms looking into a dirty court, and the girl had a baby born there, a little girl baby, with eyes like robin’s eggs.