After that they sat on the doorstep in the moonlight, and sang,—Dot with her head in Hal's lap, and Hal's arm around Granny's shoulder. A very sacred and solemn feeling seemed to come to them on this evening, as if it was a time which it would be important to remember.
"I do not believe Charlie means to come home to-night," Hal said when the clock struck ten.
"But she has on her best clothes. She wouldn't wear 'em to the mill."
So they waited a while longer. No Charlie. Then they kissed each other good-night, and began to disperse.
Hal looked into the deserted flower-room, which was still a kind of library and cosey place. The moonlight lay in broad white sheets on the floor, quivering like a summer sea. How strange and sweet it was! How lovely God had made the earth, and the serene heaven above it!
Something on the table caught his eye as he turned,—a piece of folded paper like a letter. He wondered what he had left there, and picked it up carelessly.
"To Granny and Hal."
Hal started in the utmost surprise. An unsealed letter in Charlie's handwriting, which had never been remarkable for its beauty. He trembled all over, and stood in the moonlight to read it, the slow tears coming into his eyes.
Should he go down and tell them? Perhaps it would be better not to alarm them to-night. Occasionally, when it had rained, Charlie spent the night with some of the girls living near the mill: so Granny would not worry about her.
O brave, daring, impulsive Charlie! If you could have seen the pain in Hal's heart!