Cora obeyed, craning her neck to see the last of the fascinating sheaf.
"Ain't it funny writin'?" she inquired. "'Mifter Daniel Ballard.' What
does _Mifter_ mean, mother? She don't call him _Mifter_ inside. She
calls him, 'Beloved Daniel.'"
"How do you know?"
Cora hung her head. "I peeked," she confessed.
"How many of the letters did you peek at?"
"All of 'em. An', oh, mother, it wasn't any harm, 'cause they're
fearful old. Eighteen-hundred and forty-four, they have written on 'em.
An' the one who wrote 'em, her name was Idea Stryker. She must be dead
an' buried long ago, mustn't she, mother? I guess p'raps she died
because her beau, he didn't answer her letters, or come to meet her
'down Cherry Lane' like she begged him to. She felt simply terrible
about it. She liked him a whole lot, but he got mad at her, or
something, and wouldn't answer her letters, or meet her, or anything.
When I get to be a grown-up young lady, I'd like to write such elegant
love-letters to somebody."
"He'd prob'ly go back on you, if you did. You see what happened to this
poor lady, an' hist'ry repeats itself, like Mrs. Peckett. But what I
wanta tell you, Cora, is this: You done a wrong thing. You had no
business snoopin' into what wasn't your concern. Never you do so, no
more."