"Those strange letters poor Minnie's father received," whispered Ellen; "who wrote them?" "Who stabbed Jo when he came home?" asked Dan in reply. "Whoever did that wrote the letters. Jo has an enemy." Then, with a sudden remembrance of Joshua's warning against Solomon Fewster, he cried in a louder tone than he had hitherto used, "Mr. Fewster!" With eager impatience he turned over the pages of Basil Kindred's diary, and lighted upon the original letters. They were pinned on blank pages at the end of the diary, and were written on soiled sheets of blue letter-paper. "No," said Dan, examining them; "the writing is strange to me. We must wait until Jo comes back; all will be explained then." The candle had burnt low in the socket by this time, and Dan had just said, "I think we had better try to sleep for a little while, Ellen," when they heard sounds of some one walking softly about the house. "There is no one here but Susan," said Ellen in a tone of quiet surprise. "No one but"--said Dan, and then paused, awestruck by the thought of that only other one in the house, who lay stark and dead in the room above. They listened to Susan's footsteps, and a new fear entered their hearts. There was a soft stealthiness in the footfall, as if Susan were hunting for some one who was hiding from her. "Shall I go and see?" asked Ellen. "Hush!" whispered Dan. Susan's footsteps, soft and stealthy as those of a cat, were in the passage. Presently the door was opened cautiously, and Susan entered, and softly closed the door behind her. She did not notice either Dan or Ellen, but looked about the room inquiringly, then went to the window and pulled up the blind. The moon was high in the heavens, and the light streamed down upon her face, making it ghastly. "Susan!" cried Dan. But she did not heed him; she peered anxiously through the window into the street, shading her eyes with her hand. "Is she asleep?" whispered Ellen. "I don't know," said Dan in a troubled voice; "it is dreadful to see her with that expression on her face." It was an expression of suppressed watchfulness; that her firmly-compressed lips and wandering eyes were at variance might have been due to the peculiar circumstances of her life; but in the cunning and revengeful determination in her face there was no sign of indecision. It was as though she had staked her life on the accomplishment of a task. As she turned from the window and approached Dan, he seized her hand. "Susan," he said, gently, "speak to me, my dear. What is the meaning of this?" She laid her hand upon his head, and said, "Poor Dan! And you loved her, and she is lost to you." "Not lost, Susey," he said, detaining her hand and humoring her, for he was afraid that her reason was gone; "not lost. She will come back."