"I—really, my dear,—I don't quite know that I am equal to the exertion," said the Colonel, suddenly recalling his invalid condition. He leant back, and laid a hand across his forehead in the most approved style of requesting sympathy. "I really think I must depute you—"
"O no, that would not do at all. I'll write, too, but you must send a line," urged Dorothea gently, but with decision. "It would never do. And, father, you will write warmly, won't you? I'm sure he deserves it. See, I'm going to get your writing-case, and bring the little table to your side. And I'll write my letter at the same time."
The Colonel gave in, though not without a protesting groan. Dorothea accomplished her share of the thanks eagerly and fast, scarcely hesitating a moment for a word; and when she had finished, she was surprised to see Colonel Tracey still nibbling his pen-holder, while a clean sheet lay before him.
"Why, father, not begun yet!"
"My dear, I really think—"
"It won't take you a minute when once you are started. When you have done you shall see what I have said," Dorothea added, as if offering a reward.
Thus pressed, the Colonel did at length put pen to paper, and actually achieved a very tolerable composition, not gushingly grateful, but on the whole responsive. A few doleful remarks about his own bodily condition wound up the effort neatly, and served as an excuse for shortness.
"Have you done? Now read mine, father."
Colonel Tracy obeyed, and towards the close, he exclaimed, "Hallo! What's this? Going to Craye!"
"I forgot to show you Colonel Erskine's note to me. Won't it be lovely? I shall like to see Craye."