A letter in faded ink was found in a corner of the same old garret, and the signature was 'Priscilla'; there was only one sentence legible in the whole, and to whom it was written remained a mystery: 'Trust me, dear love, that I shall ever do my duty, in spite of flaunts and jeers and most unkindly looks; and if God spares me health, which I cannot believe, He may yet right me in the eyes that no longer look at me with fondness.' Poor Priscilla! so her husband had ceased to love her.

No wonder the poor child dwindled and pined among 'the flaunts and jeers and most unkindly looks' of her step-children.

One could imagine her clasping her baby to her sad heart as she closed her eyes to the bitter misunderstanding of this life.

'Where the weary are at rest,'-- they might have written those words upon her tomb.
The thought of Priscilla used to haunt me when I roamed about the passages on windy days; the old garret especially seemed haunted by her memory.

Uncle Max once said to me that he could have constructed a romance out of her poor little history.