letters were not there! She picked up the shawl. They were underneath it instead of inside. Quickly she carried them across the room and sat down, close to the kerosene lamp. The ribbon that bound them was tied as usual in a small neat bow-knot. She untied it. The letters fell apart in her lap. They were without envelopes and bore no dates, but Sheilah knew their order by heart, and always kept them in the same sequence. The sequence was undisturbed.
Could she have put the letters underneath the shawl herself? No. She was always so careful with them. Who could have touched the precious packet? No one ever went to her closet. It was the one space in the world that was hers alone. Then, mercifully it flashed over her that possibly old Mrs. O'Connor, the Irishwoman who came twice a week to clean, might have been more thorough than usual, and disturbed the box, knocked it down, or even looked inside out of curiosity. It wouldn't matter if old Mrs. O'Connor had found the letters. She couldn't read or write.
The next day Mrs. O'Connor, questioned by Sheilah as to whether or not she had cleaned her closet the last time she had swept the room, assured her particular mistress that 'sure she had, and good and thorough, too.' Mrs. O'Connor didn't consider it a lie. She had mopped the closet floor, which was more than was her custom.
