Mrs. Pledger was never quite happy unless she knew the exact date of the age she was hunting up. Leaving Alex. she went to the attic, and taking the Bible from the chest turned to the record of deaths. As she did so two papers fell out. Ruth had seen them when she carried the Bible back, but feeling that they did not concern her, had not glanced at them. Mrs. Pledger was of a different temperament. She wanted to know what they were, especially the one so yellow and tender that it almost came to pieces in her hand. It proved to be a deed given by Eli Crosby to Amos Marsh more than fifty years before. The other paper, which was much fresher, was a sheet of foolscap folded like a letter, marked “Private” and directed to “Alexander Marsh.” But for the “Private” Mrs. Pledger would have opened it, but that deterred her, and she took both papers to Alex., who was in his usual seat under the maple. For a few minutes Mrs. Pledger stood, hoping Alex. would open the letter, but he didn’t, and she turned to go, then stopped and said: “I forgot to tell you that she was twenty-five and six months.” Alex. scarcely heard her or knew whom she meant. He was looking at the deed with a presentiment as if that yellow document were a message of evil to him. In the excitement of the good times he had been having at Maplehurst he had scarcely thought of the wrong he was to right, though he had fancied it had something to do with the farm. Of course he should right it if he ever found what it was, he said, and had dismissed it from his mind. Now, however, it came back to him with this time-worn deed, which he read twice, wondering why it remained in Mr. Crosby’s possession when by right it belonged to his Uncle Amos, who should have kept it with his papers. “Possibly the letter will throw some light on it,” he thought, and opening it at last he read it, while the cold sweat came out on his forehead and hands, making him shiver, although the day was hot. “Nephew Alexander,” it began, “I’m here in what was once my home, so-called, though never mine by right. I’m a wicked old man on the verge of the grave, and I cannot die till I have confessed a secret which I have borne for years because I had not courage to face the world which thinks me so good. I’m not good. I’m false to the core, and this is my story: “Eli Crosby and I were fast friends. What one knew the other knew. If one wanted a favor the other granted it, and we helped each other over difficulties. He was a good man, free as water with his money, and when a friend asked his name to a note of four thousand dollars he gave it against my advice. Then, as some ugly rumors reached him, he came to me and said, ‘I’ll bet I’ll have to pay that note, and if so it will take my farm. I’ve nothing else. What shall I do?’