On the morning when Julia was snugly esconced in the summer house, Rondeau returned from the post office in great tribulation.

“What’s up now?” asked Leffie, whom Rondeau drew aside, with a dolefully grave face.

“Nothing’s up,” answered Rondeau, “but the letter has got to come up!  I ain’t going to feel like I was a whipped dog any longer.  I’ll confess all to Marster George, for see, here’s another like the buried one.”  So saying, he held up Mrs. Carrington’s letter, on the envelope of which was Mr. Miller’s writing.

Leffie offered no remonstrance, and as Aunt Dilsey just then screamed for her, Rondeau went alone to the garden and proceeded to disinter the buried document.  ’Twas but the work of a moment, and could Julia have been cooling herself in Greenland, as she ought to have been, all would have ended well.  And now I suppose some indignant reader will say, “Why didn’t you put her in Greenland, then, or some worse place?” But patience, patience, a little longer.  You would have us tell things just as they were, I suppose, so we must not only suffer Miss Julia to be in the summer house, but we must also allow her to be a spectator of Rondeau’s proceedings.

She was greatly surprised when she saw him take from the cigar box a much soiled, yellowish-looking letter, and she could not help feeling that in some way it concerned herself.  Suddenly appearing, she startled Rondeau by saying, “What are you doing?  Whose is that?  Give it to me.”

Rondeau was anxious to conceal from her his long-buried treasure, and he passed her the other.  She took it and recognizing Mr. Miller’s writing, knew also that Rondeau had given her the wrong one, so she said in a commanding tone, “What does all this mean?  Give me the other one immediately.”

The submissive African, ever obedient to his superiors, handed her the other letter, and then in a few words told his story, and announced his intention of confessing all to his master, at the same time extending his hand to take the letters.  But Julia did not mean he should have them, and she said, coaxingly, “You have done very wrong, Rondeau, and your master will undoubtedly be very angry, but I will take them to him and intercede for you, as you are on the whole a pretty fine fellow.  He’ll forgive you for me.  I know he will, but mind, don’t you say anything to him about it until you’ve seen me again.”

So saying, she returned to the house and, going to her room, bolted the door.  After which, breaking the seal of the oldest letter, she deliberately read it through, occasionally uttering a malediction against Mr. Miller, thanking the good luck which brought it to her hands instead of Dr. Lacey’s, and making remarks generally.  Said she, “Mighty good opinion Mr. Quilting-frames has of me (alluding to Mr. Miller’s height), glad I know his mind.  A heap of good the answer to this did him, and his doll wife, too.  Hadn’t I better answer it