“That was where mother lived when she was a girl,” I interposed.
Mr. Paine read on:
“‘At his particular request I send you this intimation, together with the documents which you will find enclosed. Set apart from the world as here I am I cannot say when an opportunity will arise which will enable me to despatch you this, nor by what route it will reach you; but, by the mercy of an All-seeing Providence, I trust that it will reach you in the end.
“‘Mr. Batters suffered greatly towards the close; but he bore his sufferings with exemplary patience. He died, as he had lived, at peace with all men.
“I am, Dear Sir, your obedient servant,
“‘P.S.—I may add that I have just buried poor Batters, with Christian rites, as the shadows lengthened, in our little graveyard which is within hearing of the sea.’”
Mr. Paine ceased; he looked at us, and we at him.
“That’s a funny letter,” I remarked.
“Funny!” cried Emily. “Pollie, how can you say so? Why, it’s a romance.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Paine. His voice was a little dry. “It is, perhaps, because it is so like a romance that it seems—odd.”
I had a fancy that he had meant to use another word instead of “odd;” I wondered what it was.
“According to that letter my Uncle Benjamin must have changed a good deal before he died; I never