Just as I was giving up, I touched something stiffer than an autumn leaf, and pulling it out found a letter, all discolored by wet and mold, but addressed to me in my mother's handwriting.

I tore it open and read: "My poor, wandering boy: We are going away--I don't know where.

This only I know, we are going west to settle somewhere up the Lakes.

The lawsuit is ended, and we got the money your father left me, and are going west to get a new and better start in the world.

If you will write me at the post-office in Buffalo, I will inquire there for mail.