“O mother, do open it!” cried Lottie; “who knows whether it mayn’t bring us news of poor father.”
It was the same thought that had made the hand of Deborah tremble as she had taken the letter from her son. She tore open the envelope, and with anxious eyes glanced at the signature at the end of its enclosure.
“It is—yes—oh! the Lord is merciful!” exclaimed the poor wife, with something like a sob. Long experience of hardship and sorrow had so strengthened her nature to endure, that it was very seldom that Deborah gave any expression to outward emotion; but no one could have looked at her at that moment and not have read in every line of her countenance that the depths of her soul were stirred, that the few scarcely audible words which escaped her lips came from the inmost recesses of a heart where sorrow had so long fixed its abode, that when joy came it startled and overpowered, like the visit of an angel.
THE LETTER.
“Mother, read more; oh! read every word!” cried Lottie, whose only emotions seemed those of hope and delight; while her brother looked bewildered and scarcely able to comprehend that that piece of paper, blotted and soiled, on which his mother’s tears were falling, actually contained the writing of his father.
It was some little time before the trembling, excited woman could, with the help of her children, make out the scrawl, which read as follows:—
Ancor inn, sutamton.
Dear wife,—I landed here last month. I bin vry ill 6 weeks; i bin in det, an cant git away till i pais, so send me five punds afor thusday in a letter, or i shall git in gret trubel; don’t tell no one abuit me, most of all not mister Erdly, cause id be had up for that scrape—mind don’t tell no one, but send mony quick; i hop to be a beter husband an father; it was all along of the drink; so no more fum yur loving
Abner Stone.