She reddened a little, an' then she looked me straight in the face, and sez "I found it in the attic. I wanted a new box to put my cigarettes in, an' one day Daddy left the attic door open an' I went in. The' was just a dandy chest there an' he had left the key in it. I opened it an' this letter was on top. He goes to the attic alone every now an' again,--mostly at night,--an' he won't never let me go with him." "I suppose that was the reason you thought he wanted you to go alone to the attic, too," sez I. She flushed again. "If a person don't trust me he ain't got no call to be surprised when I don't suit him." I shook my head. Now in talkin' to her you forgot she was a child, 'cause she didn't talk broken like most of 'em do--nor she didn't think broken neither; but when you looked at her, little and slim an' purty as a picture, you couldn't help but wonder if she hadn't got her soul changed off with some one else, like what they say the Chinese believe. She had the same rules that I did for so many things that it floored me to understand how she got 'em that young, me havin' had to figger 'em out with a heap o' sweat. "Was the letter to you?" I sez, gettin' around to facts. "No, it wasn't; but I read it, an' I wisht I knew what it means." "I ain't a-goin' to read it," sez I. "You 're a coward," sez she. "That's nothing," sez I; "if it wasn't for the cowards the' would be a heap o' vacant land in this country," sez I. "I thought you was my friend," sez she, takin' back the letter an' holdin' it open in her hand. "If Spider Kelley could read he would read it for me." "So would Hawkins, your pinto," sez I, grinnin'. "What you ought to do is to tell your Dad that you have the letter. If you don't tell him, I reckon I'll have to." At first she was mad as hops, an' then she looked into my eyes an' laughed. "I'll dare you to," sez she. The' was some woman in her even then. The' wasn't no way to bluff her, so I said serious, "Well, what do you intend to do about it?" "I don't know," said she. "Dad has lost so many other things beside his temper, stumpin' around with that cane, that he thinks he has lost the key to the chest. He goes around grumblin' an' lookin' for it; but he don't ask if any one has found it. Why do you suppose that is?" "It ain't any of my supposin'," sez I. "What are you goin' to do about it?" "As soon as I get through with this letter--an' make up my mind not to hunt through the chest--I'm goin' to slip the key into his pocket--an' then watch his face when he finds it." "You oughtn't to treat your own father so, Barbara," sez I.