“Read the letter first, Maimie,” I said.
Maimie obeyed, not once only. A look of perplexity came over her face, and the bright look faded.
“The bank-note is for you, of course, Aunt Marion,” she said soberly. “He says it is a present towards expenses.”
“How much is it for?” asked Aunt Briscoe. Maimie glanced at it, and murmured something about “dollars.”
“We are not in America,” said Aunt Briscoe drily.
“O no,” and Maimie gave another look. “It is—twenty-five pounds.”
I could not but feel a throb of relief and gratitude. At that moment we were so needing help. I saw an echo of my own sensations in Robert’s face.
“Is your stepfather coming home?” asked Aunt Briscoe.
“He—doesn’t say,” faltered Maimie. “He only says he writes just to send a little present. He is going away somewhere else—I mean he was when he wrote,—so he couldn’t give his address.”
“Humph!” Aunt Briscoe said expressively. “Where is he now, child?”