Thus the kind lady reassured herself, and with these gentle thoughts in her mind she fell asleep.
Mrs. Gray awoke early in the morning, and softly entered the spare bed-room. It was empty. No vestige of her brother's visit remained. Like a ghost he came, like a ghost he had departed. She went up stairs—the nephew was gone. Some time during that day she happened to think of his visit to the work-stand. It was only the old copy book that he had taken.
CHAPTER XI. THE MOTHER'S LETTER.
What though her gentle heart is breaking!
What though her form grows pale and thin!
His iron heart knows no awaking,
Nor tears nor anguish moveth him.
It was two nights after Thanksgiving. Leicester had thrown himself upon a couch in his chamber. A little sofa-table was by his elbow, and upon it a small and richly chased salver, overflowing with notes and letters. Most of them were unopened, for he had been absent several days, and it often happened that when he once knew a handwriting, and did not fancy the correspondence, letters remained for weeks unread, on that little table, even when he was at home.