Ralph motioned her to silence, his finger on his lip, and pointed significantly through the open rear doorway.
A pathetic sympathy crossed the widow's face and the tears came into her eyes. Ralph left her to keep an unobtrusive watch on their guest, and returning to the well, found the envelope he had left there pretty well dried out.
He carefully removed the envelope, and placed it in his pocket. Then he as carefully unfolded the sheet within.
An expression of dismay crossed his face. The inside screed had not been written in ink, but with a soft purple lead pencil. This the rain had affected even more than it had the envelope in which it had been enclosed.
At first sight the missive was an indecipherable blur, but scanning it more closely, Ralph gained some faint hope that he might make out at least a part of its contents.
He had a magnifying glass in his workroom in the attic, and he went there for it. For nearly an hour Ralph pored over the sheet of paper which he held in his hand.
His face was a study as he came downstairs again, and sought his mother.
She sat near the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, where she could keep sight of their guest.
The invalid was seated on the door step of the wood shed shelling a pan of peas, as happy and contented a mortal as one would see in a day's journey.
"He is a good boy," said the widow softly to Ralph, "and winsome with his gentle, easy ways. He seems to delight in occupation. What is it, Ralph?" she added, as she noted the serious, preoccupied look on her son's face.