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"
Just
to
think
of
it
--
mother
was
younger
than
I
am
now
when
I
was
born
,
"
she
whispered
.
When
Anne
went
downstairs
the
lady
of
the
house
met
her
in
the
hall
.
She
held
out
a
dusty
little
packet
tied
with
faded
blue
ribbon
.
"
Here
's
a
bundle
of
old
letters
I
found
in
that
closet
upstairs
when
I
came
here
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
dunno
what
they
are
--
I
never
bothered
to
look
in
'
em
,
but
the
address
on
the
top
one
is
'
Miss
Bertha
Willis
,
'
and
that
was
your
ma
's
maiden
name
.
You
can
take
'
em
if
you
'd
keer
to
have
'
em
.
"
"
Oh
,
thank
you
--
thank
you
,
"
cried
Anne
,
clasping
the
packet
rapturously
.
"
That
was
all
that
was
in
the
house
,
"
said
her
hostess
.
"
The
furniture
was
all
sold
to
pay
the
doctor
bills
,
and
Mrs.
Thomas
got
your
ma
's
clothes
and
little
things
.
I
reckon
they
did
n't
last
long
among
that
drove
of
Thomas
youngsters
.
They
was
destructive
young
animals
,
as
I
mind
'
em
.
"
"
I
have
n't
one
thing
that
belonged
to
my
mother
,
"
said
Anne
,
chokily
.
"
I
--
I
can
never
thank
you
enough
for
these
letters
.
"
"
You
're
quite
welcome
.
Laws
,
but
your
eyes
is
like
your
ma
's
.
She
could
just
about
talk
with
hers
.
Your
father
was
sorter
homely
but
awful
nice
.
I
mind
hearing
folks
say
when
they
was
married
that
there
never
was
two
people
more
in
love
with
each
other
--
Pore
creatures
,
they
did
n't
live
much
longer
;
but
they
was
awful
happy
while
they
was
alive
,
and
I
s
'
pose
that
counts
for
a
good
deal
.
"
Anne
longed
to
get
home
to
read
her
precious
letters
;
but
she
made
one
little
pilgrimage
first
.
She
went
alone
to
the
green
corner
of
the
"
old
"
Bolingbroke
cemetery
where
her
father
and
mother
were
buried
,
and
left
on
their
grave
the
white
flowers
she
carried
.
Then
she
hastened
back
to
Mount
Holly
,
shut
herself
up
in
her
room
,
and
read
the
letters
.
Some
were
written
by
her
father
,
some
by
her
mother
.
There
were
not
many
--
only
a
dozen
in
all
--
for
Walter
and
Bertha
Shirley
had
not
been
often
separated
during
their
courtship
.
The
letters
were
yellow
and
faded
and
dim
,
blurred
with
the
touch
of
passing
years
.
No
profound
words
of
wisdom
were
traced
on
the
stained
and
wrinkled
pages
,
but
only
lines
of
love
and
trust
.
The
sweetness
of
forgotten
things
clung
to
them
--
the
far-off
,
fond
imaginings
of
those
long-dead
lovers
.
Bertha
Shirley
had
possessed
the
gift
of
writing
letters
which
embodied
the
charming
personality
of
the
writer
in
words
and
thoughts
that
retained
their
beauty
and
fragrance
after
the
lapse
of
time
.
The
letters
were
tender
,
intimate
,
sacred
.
To
Anne
,
the
sweetest
of
all
was
the
one
written
after
her
birth
to
the
father
on
a
brief
absence
.
It
was
full
of
a
proud
young
mother
's
accounts
of
"
baby
"
--
her
cleverness
,
her
brightness
,
her
thousand
sweetnesses
"
I
love
her
best
when
she
is
asleep
and
better
still
when
she
is
awake
,
"
Bertha
Shirley
had
written
in
the
postscript
.
Probably
it
was
the
last
sentence
she
had
ever
penned
.
The
end
was
very
near
for
her
.
