There were pretty easy-chairs and tempting rockers scattered about; a luxurious sofa in one corner, and a handsome table in the center of the floor, covered with a richly embroidered cloth, evidently the work of a skillful pair of hands, and the young man wondered if Annie Dale had wrought the beautiful thing. There was a small piano between the two front windows, a book-case, filled with books by standard authors, in a corner, and at one end there was a lovely writing-desk, containing numerous drawers and pigeon-holes, and every convenience for writing. A small work-basket, on an elaborate stand, stood beside a pretty rocker by one of the low front windows. It was a dainty affair, lined with crimson satin and garnished with bows of ribbon to match; and Everet Mapleson could imagine just how the graceful figure of the fair girl to whom it had belonged, had looked as she sat beside it, intent upon some delicate bit of sewing or embroidery. He turned again to the writing-desk, as if he instinctively felt that this was more likely than anything else to contain some information regarding the former occupants of the pretty house. It was not locked. He opened it, laying the cover out flat, and then began pulling out the drawers and peering into the various pigeon-holes and compartments. They were all empty—so far there had not been even a scrap of paper to tell who, in days gone by, had made use of the convenient and elegant affair—and he shut them up again with a sigh of impatience and regret, while a feeling of gloom began to oppress him; there was something very dreary in this house, so completely furnished, yet so silent and deserted. A sensation of guilt, too, began to intrude uncomfortably upon him. It almost seemed as if the former occupants of this home, although perhaps long since dead and passed beyond all things earthly, were yet spiritually present at that moment, and were viewing, with a reproachful eye, this wanton invasion of the place that had once been sacred to them. He put up the cover, and was pushing in the little side rests that had held it, when a scrap of paper, wedged in beside one of them, caught his eye. Something very like an electric shock ran along his nerves at this discovery. He tried to dislodge the paper, but it was very firmly caught, while the ragged edges did not protrude sufficiently to allow him to grasp it with his fingers. He drew forth his knife, and, working very carefully, finally succeeded in detaching it from its position. Upon examining it he found it to be a portion of a letter that had probably been caught some time, when the slide was being pushed in, and the other part had been hastily torn away, doubtless by some one trying to remove it from the crevice. He smoothed it out with an eager, trembling hand, while his face grew white from the excitement of the moment.