Accordingly, the same afternoon, she left her work in the kitchen in order to institute a search for it. As a prudent precaution, however, she just opened the door of the common room, to make sure that Aunt Lucy was at work therein. She made her way upstairs, and entering the room in which the old lady lodged, together with two others, she at once went to the chest and opened it. She began to rummage round among the old lady's scanty treasures, and at length, much to her joy, happened upon the letter, laid carefully away in one corner of the chest. She knew it was the one she sought, from the recent postmark, and the address, which was in the unformed handwriting of a boy. To make absolutely certain, she drew the letter from the envelope and looked at the signature. She was right, as she saw at a glance. It was from Paul. “Now I'll see what the little rascal has to say for himself,” she muttered, “I hope he's in distress; oh, how I'd like to get hold of him.” Mrs. Mudge began eagerly to read the letter, not dreaming of interruption. But she was destined to be disappointed. To account for this we must explain that, shortly after Mrs. Mudge looked into the common room, Aunt Lucy was reminded of something essential, which she had left upstairs. She accordingly laid down her work upon the chair in which she had been sitting, and went up to her chamber. Mrs. Mudge was too much preoccupied to hear the advancing steps. As the old lady entered the chamber, what was her mingled indignation and dismay at seeing Mrs. Mudge on her knees before _her_ chest, with the precious letter, whose arrival had gladdened her so much, in her hands. “What are you doing there, Mrs. Mudge?” she said, sternly. Mrs. Mudge rose from her knees in confusion. Even she had the grace to be ashamed of her conduct. “Put down that letter,” said the old lady in an authoritative voice quite new to her. Mrs. Mudge, who had not yet collected her scattered senses, did as she was requested. Aunt Lucy walked hastily to the chest, and closed it, first securing the letter, which she put in her pocket. “I hope it will be safe, now,” she said, rather contemptuously. “Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Mudge?” “Ashamed of myself!” shrieked that amiable lady, indignant with herself for having quailed for a moment before the old lady. “What do you mean--you--you pauper?” “I may be a pauper,” said Aunt Lucy, calmly, “But I am thankful to say that I mind my own business, and don't meddle with other people's chests.” A red spot glowed on either cheek of Mrs. Mudge. She was trying hard to find some vantage-ground over the old lady. “Do you mean to say that I don't mind my business?” she blustered, folding her arms defiantly. “What were you at my trunk for?” said the old lady, significantly. “Because it was my duty,” was the brazen reply. Mrs. Mudge had rapidly determined upon her line of defense, and thought it best to carry the war into the enemy's country.