"I did not know that. We heard only that Jack was prisoner. It has been a sad grief to me."
"Will you have his letter now?" asked Denham, in his most courteous tones.
"If you choose, sir."
She moved two or three paces nearer to a candle, to read it. Jack's left-handed hieroglyphics were not to be deciphered quickly. This was what she made out—
"DEAR POLLY,—Denham is going home to you; and he has heard a false tale of your having forgot him. That is why he has not writ to you for so long a time. But I have assured him of your Unchanged Affection, and now I assure you of the same in him. Roy was in the right of the matter. Den has not altered, nor will he alter. But he has gone through much, and has been long ill, and the Death of Our Hero has gone near to break his heart. So do not put on pretty airs, dear Poll, but comfort him, as you know how, for he needs your comfort; and the sooner you and he get married, the better pleased shall I be, for he is in want of you. Be good to him, my dear Polly, and believe me,—Your affectionate brother, JACK KEENE."
Polly came across to where Denham stood.
"Jack tells me of the mistake," she whispered. "And now I understand. He tells me, too, that I am to comfort you."
She held out her hands, and he took them into his strong grasp.
"Sweet Polly," he said, in a voice which shook a little, despite his best efforts—"you wrote to me once a letter, which was signed, 'Yours faithfully—and till death.' That letter I have never parted with since the day it reached me. Not even when I feared that I had indeed cause for doubt. Can you say those words to me once again?"
Polly lifted her head, and looked straight into his eyes. "I am yours, Denham,—always and ever—as long as life shall last," she uttered, very clearly.