"Strange! What did he die of?"
"He was not well on Sunday. Then on Monday he woke quite early, and said something about his head, about not wanting to be disturbed. After that he never spoke again. Some sort of attack like apoplexy, Harvey believes. Poor fellow!"
"Poor old Mr. Dalrymple?"
"Yes—no—I meant Harvey. He has had to go through all this, and I have been thinking—"
Julia did not end the self-reproachful sentence.
"Why did he not write sooner?"
"He says he could not, and he thought a telegram would frighten me."
"He doesn't think you a greater goose than you are, my dear." Then, after a break, "Was this what made you look so happy over your letter? To be sure!—Westford will belong to your husband now."
"Francesca! how can you?"
"Well, if you had seen your own face—"