about the happiest minutes 's I 've knowed since father died. You c'n believe me or not, jus' 's you please, Mrs. Lathrop, but I cried over that letter; 'n' if some was the dust in my nose, the rest was real affection, for, Lord knows, when you 're scratchin' out mice 'n' cobwebs you ain't lookin' to find a relation none. But anyhow, there she was, 'n' if she ain't died in the mean time—f'r the letter was wrote over fifty years ago—I may know suthin' o' family life yet. It was the beautifullest letter 't I ever read. You c'd n't imagine nothin' more beautiful. I'm afraid 's mebbe mother 'n' me misjudged father, owin' to the everlastin' up 'n' down stairs, 'n' mother used to say right out 't it was a neck to neck tie 's to which he stuck closest to, his bed or his money. But he wasn't always like that, 'n' this letter proves it, for Heaven knows what he must 'a' give Cousin Marion to 'a' ever brought her to write him such words 's them. Not to deceive you, Mrs. Lathrop, the letter was that grateful that I was more 'n a little bothered over it. It is n't very likely 's you sh'd be able to understan' my feelin's to their full, 'n' yet you c'n mebbe guess 's it ain't altogether a agreeable thing to suddenly find out 't your own native flesh 'n' blood father's got distant relations callin' down daily blessin's on him f'r his overwhelmin' generosity. That's what she said in the letter, 'n' I can't deny 's the words sent a cold chill runnin' down my backbone 's I read 'em. 

 "The whole letter was writ in the same style, 'n' it didn't take long f'r me to see right straight through it, 'n' hatch more 'n a suspicion 't the reason 't I never hear o' Cousin Marion afore was 'cause she was head over heels in love with father. It was real touchin' too to think how near her letter came to bein' one o' mother's, 'n' in the end I jus' sneezed till I cried, for, to my shame be it said, Mrs. Lathrop, 't the dust was 's thick in my garret this day 's it is in your parlor the year aroun'." 

 Susan paused to shake her head and use her pocket-handkerchief over her souvenirs in general. Mrs. Lathrop sat dumb and attentive. 

 "Marion Prim was her name," the narrator continued presently, "'n' she writ it from Knoxville fifty-one years ago come last October. Did you ever hear of her?" 

 Mrs. Lathrop screwed her face up thoughtfully, but was forced to screw it into a negation after all. 

 "Seems funny 't father never spoke o' her after mother was so far past bein' jealous 's to be buried. He c'd 'a' said anythin' about anybody them years, 

 Prev. P 64/102 next