She took the envelope and opened it. It contained two separate communications. The first was to her from Dora. The other was in Fred Walton's well-remembered hand. Dora's note ran: _Dear Margaret,--I want you to do poor Fred the simple justice of reading his letter to me. I saw yesterday that you were angered by my mentioning him, and I don't believe you could have been so if you had the faith in him which he deserves. You may doubt him, for some reason or other, but I am sure you could do so no longer if you would only read the tender things he has written about you. Sincerely, Dora Barry._ Margaret read and reread the note. Her prejudice was still playing riot with her better judgment, and, feeling sure that Dora's eyes were on her, she scornfully swept both the communications from her lap to the grass at her feet and turned to her magazine. Lionel stared, a pained expression slowly capturing his mobile features as he stood in rigid indecision for a moment; then, with a sigh, he stooped down and picked up the sheets of paper which were being blown about on the grass. The first page of Fred Walton's letter to Dora was the last he secured, and, just as he was picking it up, Margaret, almost against her will, dropped her glance upon it, reading the introductory line at the top of the sheet. “My dear old friend,” she saw quite plainly, in Fred's bold writing, “You will be surprised to hear from me for the first time after all these years--” “_Old friend--after all these years!_” Those words, so contradictory to what she expected, remained before Margaret's sight even after the child had gathered the sheets in his offended arms and was turning away. What could they mean? Surely that was not the way a man would begin a letter to the woman he had betrayed and deserted. There must be some mystery, and the child was bearing its solution away. Her desire to know more was too strong to be resisted. Impulsively she cried out: “Little boy! Lionel! Wait! Bring them back! I dropped them!” He turned, a look of mystification on his face, and came back doubtfully. “I haven't read them yet,” she explained, humbly enough, and she extended her hand. “Let me have them.” “I thought you were angry,” he said, staring at her. “I thought you didn't want my mother's letter.” “I'll read them,” she promised, tremblingly. “Wait, won't you? That's a good boy.” He stood beside her, studiously observant of the phenomenon of her changeableness, while she literally devoured Fred Walton's letter. It ran: