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“Our clothes.”

“Nothing else?”

“Mother had a beautiful little box that was always locked. It had letters in it, I think.”

“Did you ever see her reading them?”

“Oh yes, often, when she thought I was asleep; and she would cry, sometimes, dreadful hard.”

“This box Mrs. Claxon kept?”

“Yes, sir; she kept every thing.”

“Very well. We will see if we can’t make her give up some of the things.”

“If she will give me that little box, she may have every thing else,” said the lad.

“Why are you so desirous to have that box?”

“I sometimes think if I could get that box, and all the letters and papers it had in it, that I would be able to know better who I am, and why I mustn’t go and see my uncle, who is rich, and could take me away from where I am now.”

“You don’t like to live with Mr. Maxwell, then?”

“Oh no, sir.”

I did not question him as to the reason; that was unnecessary.

After putting up one or two prescriptions, (we had not then fallen into the modern more comfortable mode of writing them,) I told the boy that I would walk home with him, and excuse him to his master for having stayed away so long. I had no great difficulty in doing this, although the shoemaker seemed at first a little fretted at my having taken up the lad’s cause again. In passing to his shop, the house where Mrs. Claxon lived was pointed out to me. Before leaving, I made Maxwell promise to let the boy come up on the next evening to get his feet dressed, telling him, what was true, that this was necessary to be done, or very serious consequences might follow.

I then called upon Mrs. Claxon. She was a virago. But the grave and important face that I put on when I asked if a Mrs. Miller did not once live in her house, subdued her. After some little hesitation, she replied in the affirmative.

“I knew as much,” I said, thinking it well to let her understand from the beginning that it would not do to attempt deception.

“She died here, I believe?” I continued.

“Yes, sir; she died in my house.”

“She left some property in your hands, did she not?”

“Property? Humph! If you call an old bed and bedstead, with other trumpery that didn’t sell for enough to pay her back rent, property, why, then, she did leave property.”

“Of course,” I said, calmly. “Whatever she left was property; and, of course, in taking possession of it, you did so under a regular legal process. You took out letters of administration, I presume, and brought in your bill against the effects of the deceased, which was regularly passed by the Orphans’ Court, and paid out of the amount for which the things sold.”

The effect of this was just what I desired. The woman looked frightened. She had done no such thing, as I knew very well.

“If you have proceeded in this way,” I resumed, “all is well enough; but if you have not done so, I am sorry to say that you will most likely get yourself into trouble.”

“How so, sir?” she asked, with increasing alarm.

“The law is very rigid in all these matters. When a person dies, there must be a regular administration upon his property. The law permits no one to seize upon his effects. In the case of Mrs. Miller, if you were legally authorized to settle her estate, you can, of course, account for all that came into your hands. Now, I am about instituting a rigid examination into the matter, and if I do not get satisfaction, shall have you summoned to appear before the Orphans’ Court, and answer for your conduct. Mrs. Miller was highly connected, and it is believed had papers in her possession of vital importance to the living. These were contained in a small casket of costly and curious workmanship. This casket, with its contents, must be produced. Can you produce them?”