“Just what I have expected all along,” said Dulcibel.
Mrs. Flint came back, and George received the folded sheet, a slight exclamation passing his lips as he noted the address—“How could she know my name?”
“Why, of course you gave it yesterday,” said Dulcibel.
“No, I did not.”
“No, sir, you didn’t mention no name,” chimed in Mrs. Flint. “I couldn’t make out how it was the lady seemed to know, if so be that’s right.”
“Quite right,” George said laconically.
He opened and read slowly—read more than once, with a look of growing astonishment. He seemed to forget the presence of others. Once or twice he put the letter down on his knee, gazing into the distance, rubbing his brow and combing out his beard, with gestures of perplexity peculiar to himself. Dulcibel could endure the suspense no longer.
“Georgie, what does she say? Do please tell me.”
George woke up, as from a dream, and gave the paper to his wife.
“Read it,” he said; and then he suddenly caught up Joan, and folded her in both his strong arms. “Little lamb—poor little, motherless lamb!” broke from him in stirred, deep tones, while his brows were still sternly bent. Dulcibel sat looking at him.