But in his grave and beautifully modulated voice Lady Marion detected a tone of impatience at the trivial cause of this interruption. She was by this time already in the nook under the stairs, making the most of her time, for she guessed that it would not be long before Amos would find an excuse for returning to the occupation which had absorbed him so deeply. She flung open the chest with violence, which caused its old hinges to creak and little splinters to fly off the worm-eaten wood, while she, half choked by the dust, groped blindly among the mass of mouldering, musty parchments, pamphlets and papers. It was some minutes before the air was clear enough, and her eyes sufficiently used to the obscurity of the ill-lighted corner, for her to begin her search in earnest. Deep down into the withered-looking heap she dived, and, after many a futile plunge, fished up at last a crumpled paper, which she felt sure was the one on which Amos had been engaged. It was part of an old letter, undated, but bearing every sign, in its yellowish paper, faded ink, old-fashioned handwriting, and voluminous style, of having been written long before the introduction of the penny post. The page containing the signature was missing, but the commencement, “My dear Oswin,” showed that it was written to one of her ancestors--Oswin being a family name--and internal evidence proved that it was from one intimate friend to another. The writer began by regretting that his own health was so bad, not having been improved by a long voyage he had recently taken to improve it, that he was unable to come to see his friend Oswin, who, he was sorry to hear, was also far from well. He wrote in the strain of a man who thinks the end of his own life approaching.