"It wasn't much of a story, that is true," said Bertha. "There was not enough of it." "He died too soon," said Jack. "Yes," said Bertha; "he died too soon, that was it,--too soon." And the laugh she ended with had a sound which made her shudder. She got up from her rocking-chair quickly. "We won't tell stories," she said. "We will play. We will play ball and blind-man's bluff--and run about and get warm. That will be better." And she took out her handkerchief and tied it over her eyes with unsteady hands, laughing again,--laughing while the children laughed, too. They played until the room rang with their merriment. They had not been so gay together for many a day, and when the game was at an end they tried another and another, until they were tired and ready for their nursery dinner. Bertha did not leave them even then. She did not expect Richard home until their own dinner-hour in the evening, so she sat at the children's table and helped them herself, in the nurse's place; and they were in high spirits, and loquacious and confidential. When the meal was over they sat by the nursery fire, and Meg fell asleep in her mother's arms; and after she had laid her on her bed Bertha came back to Jack and Janey, and read and talked to them until dusk began to close in about them. It was as they sat so together that a sealed package was brought to her by a servant, who said it had been left at the door by a messenger. It contained two letters,--one addressed to Senator Blundel, and one to herself,--and both were in Richard's hand. "I suppose something has detained him, and I am not to wait dinner," she thought, as she opened the envelope bearing her own name. The same thing had occurred once or twice before, so it made but little impression upon her. There were the usual perfectly natural excuses. He had been very hard at work and would be obliged to remain out until some time past their dinner-hour. He had an engagement at one of the hotels, and could dine there; he was not quite sure that he should be home until late. Then he added, just before closing: "Blundel said something about calling this evening. He had been having a hard day of it and said he wanted a change. I had a very satisfactory talk with him, and I think he begins to see the rights of our case. Entertain him as charmingly as possible, and if he is not too tired, and is in a good humor, hand him the enclosed letter. It contains testimony which ought to be a strong argument, and I think it will be." Bertha looked at the letter. It was not at all imposing, and seemed to contain nothing more than a slip of paper. She put it down on the mantel and sighed faintly.