Blest if she didn't reach it toward me!--sort of woodenlike. I stuck my finger under the flap, gave it a rip across and emptied what was inside into her lap. Bet there were six or seven letters in queer yellow envelopes I never before had seen any like, and on them was the name, Robert Paget, while in one corner it said, "Returned Dead Letter"; also there was a loose folded white sheet. She sat staring at the heap, touching one, another, and repeating "Robert Paget?" as she picked each up in turn. "What do you suppose it means?" she asked May. May examined them. "You must read the loose sheet," she advised. "No doubt that will explain." But Shelley never touched it. She handled those letters and stared at them. Father and mother came through the orchard and stood together behind us, so father knelt down at last, reached across Shelley's shoulder, picked one up and looked at it. "Have you good word, dear?" asked mother of Shelley. "Why, I don't understand at all," said Shelley. "Just look at all these queer letters, addressed to Mr. Paget. Why should they be sent to me? I mustn't open them. They're not mine. There must be some mistake." "These are DEAD LETTERS," said father. "They've been written to you, couldn't be delivered, and so were sent to the Dead Letter Office at Washington, which returned them to the writer, and unopened he has forwarded them once more to you. You've heard of dead letters, haven't you?" "I suppose so," said Shelley. "I don't remember just now; but there couldn't be a better name. They've come mighty near killing me." "If you'd only read that note!" urged May, putting it right into her fingers. Shelley still sat there. "I'm afraid of it," she said exactly like I'd have spoken if there had been a big rattlesnake coming right at me, when I'd nothing at hand to bruise it. Laddie and Leon came from the barn. They had heard me calling, seen May and me run, and then father and mother coming down, so they walked over. "What's up?" asked Leon. "Has Uncle Levi's will been discovered, and does mother get his Mexican mines?" "What have you got, Shelley?" asked Laddie, kneeling beside her, and picking up one of the yellow letters. "I hardly know," said Shelley. "I brought her a big letter with all those little ones and a note in it, and they are from the Paget man," I explained to him. "But she won't even read the note, and see what he writes. She says she's afraid." "Poor child! No wonder!" said Laddie, sitting beside her and putting his arm around her. "Suppose I read it for you. May I?" "Yes," said Shelley. "You read it. Read it out loud. I don't care." She leaned against him, while he unfolded the white sheet. "Umph!" he said. "This DOES look bad for you. It begins: 'My own darling Girl.'" "Let me see!" cried Shelley, suddenly straightening, and reaching her hand. Laddie held the page toward her, but she only looked, she didn't offer to touch it.