and came back and made a terrible rummaging; but another tenant had moved in with a heap of litter, and nothing could be found of the packet. Since t'other tenant has packed off 'twixt two days, and we found this stowed away in the closet." He took out a small locket and a letter.
"That locket was my mother's!" exclaimed Juliet.
"Was, child? but it's mine now. I don't believe," continued the man, supposing of course that Mrs. Smith was Juliet's mother, "that it ever did belong to your mother; but you shall judge, good woman," to Mrs. Aikin. "Here is the letter—the locket was in the letter." He began reading.
"'My dear'—something, I can't tell that word; it may be father, and it may be mother; but never mind, it goes on: 'On the bed of death, and with my poor little girl beside me—'"
"Oh, it was my own mother that wrote it!" screamed Juliet; "don't let him read it!"
Forgetting her fears, she sprang forward and snatched it, repeating, with an imploring look to Mr. Barlow and Mrs. Aikin, "It is mine! it was my own mother wrote it!"
Mrs. Aikin soothed her, and Mr. Barlow drew her to him, whispering an assurance that she should keep it.
"What the deuse ails you, child?" asked the man; " you are welcome to the letter, though I guess it will make you all kind o' qualmish to read it. The locket I'll keep myself—the casing, I mean; the picture won't sell for any thing, though I think it's a pretty, comely-looking person. What do you think, neighbour?" holding it up to Mr,
