“MY DEAR LITTLE CHARLEY,”
“How is it you do not write to mamma? Not a message from you now: not a letter! I am sure you are not forgetting me.”
“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mr. Huntley, handing it back to Hamish. “Poor mother!”
“I did not show it to Constance,” observed Hamish. “It would only distress her. Good night, sir. By the way,” added Hamish, turning as he reached the door: “Mr. Galloway has received that money back again.”
“What money?” cried Mr. Huntley.
“That which was lost. A twenty-pound note came to him in a letter by this afternoon’s post. The letter states that Arthur, and all others who may have been accused, are innocent.”
“Oh, indeed!” cried Mr. Huntley, with cutting sarcasm, as the conviction flashed over him that Hamish, and no other, had been the sender. “The thief has come to his senses at last, has he? So far as to render lame justice to Arthur.”
Hamish left the room. The hall had not yet been lighted, and Hamish could hardly see the outline of a form, crossing it from the staircase to the drawing-room. He knew whose it was, and he caught it to him.
“Ellen,” he whispered, “what has turned your father against me?”
Of course she could not enlighten him; she could not say to Hamish Channing, “He suspects you of being a thief.” Her whole spirit would have revolted from that, as much as it did from the accusation. The subject was a painful one; she was flurried at the sudden meeting—the stealthy meeting, it may be said; and—she burst into tears.
I am quite afraid to say what Mr. Hamish did, this being a sober story. When he left the hall, Ellen Huntley’s cheeks were glowing, and certain sweet words were ringing changes in her ears.
“Ellen! they shall never take you from me!”