The conversation was interrupted. Cragg walked in, carrying a letter, which he gave to Pattie.
"Post this minute come," he remarked. "Dot is looking more herself this afternoon than I've seen her. Just been there, and she woke up. She's all right; you needn't hurry. Eh?"—as an exclamation burst from Pattie.
The girl clasped her hands.
"O! I am so glad! It's the one thing I wanted! I am so glad! My dear father!"
"Anything happened?" asked Cragg.
Pattie's face was a mixture of smiles and tears.
"Yes. A letter from Mr. Peterson himself—such a kind letter. He has found out who took the money, and he knows now that it was not my father. He is so grieved to think he could ever have suspected him. He says he would give his right hand to undo the past."
"The man must be a wretch! Why, he ought to have known your father better!" declared Mrs. Cragg. Like most persons of suspicious temperament, she was voluble in condemning others for doing what she would have done herself.
"I think he ought; but it is easy for us to say that now. I suppose it was not easy for him to feel sure then. My father never spoke a hard word of Mr. Peterson."
"And your father will never know that the truth is found out. I do think that's too bad."