envelope, gave a gasp, and pressed two bloodless lips together.
"I'm afraid it's uncle," she said, holding the letter and staring with eyes wide open into Winslow's face. "It's a strange hand!"
"The postmark's Hull," said Winslow.
"The postmark's Hull."
Minnie opened the letter slowly, drew it out, hesitated, turned it over, saw the signature. "It's Mr. Speight!"
"What does he say?" said Winslow.
Minnie began to read. "Oh!" she screamed. She dropped the letter, collapsed into a crouching heap, her hands covering her eyes. Winslow snatched at it. "A most terrible accident has occurred," he read; "Melchior's chimney fell down yesterday evening right on the top of your uncle's house, and every living soul was killed—your uncle, your cousin Mary, Will and Ned, and the girl—every one of them, and smashed you would hardly know them. I'm writing to you to break the news before you see it in the papers"— The letter fluttered from Winslow's fingers. He put out his hand against the mantel to steady himself.
All of them dead! Then he saw, as in a vision, a row of seven cottages, each let at seven shillings a week, a timber yard, two villas, and the ruins—still marketable—of the avuncular residence. He tried to feel a sense of loss and could not. They were sure to have been left to Minnie's aunt. All dead! 7×7×52÷20 began insensibly to work itself out in his mind, but discipline was ever weak in his mental
