[CHAPTER IV]
DOLEFUL TIDINGS
"A LETTER from Paris! Grandmother, a letter from Paris!" cried Molly, as she rushed into the dining-room of Mrs. Fairbank's house at Bath. "And it is in my papa's handwriting."
Mrs. Fairbank, a comely elderly lady—in these days, with the same weight of years, she would have been cheerfully middle-aged—adjusted her horn spectacles, tied her loosened capstrings, and scrutinised Molly's eager face.
"You make too much of things, child," she remarked. "Whatever befalls, it is not worth while to discompose yourself."
Then she lifted the letter, examined it, weighed it in either hand—and hesitated. Being an excellent disciplinarian, she was wont to welcome opportunities for the exercise of self-control. Molly, squeezing her hands together, wondered if the slow moments would ever pass, and Polly found it scarcely easier to endure delay.
"Jack!" gasped Molly,—and "O Jack!" echoed Polly, in a tone of relief.
The young man who walked in—he was hardly more than a boy in years—bore small resemblance to his sister. He was of squarer build than Polly, under medium height, and muscular in make; his features were irregular, and the eyes were light blue, instead of brown. Jack Keene boasted no particular pretensions to good looks, but he was very generally liked; and Mrs. Fairbank, after the manner of elderly ladies, doted on her grandson.
Jack read the little scene at a glance, and as he stooped to greet one after another, he said—"News from France, ma'am? And what may they say?"
Having no further excuse for delay, Mrs. Fairbank opened the letter, and took thence a tiny missive, addressed to Molly. "From Roy," she said. "I think—" and there was a dubious pause—"I think I may permit you to read this to yourself, child. Doubtless your mamma has seen it."