A month—six weeks went by, and still nothing of Mr. Lee or of Lottie; both had deserted us, and we were indeed alone. Jessie had some consolation in the dawning tenderness of her second love; but I—oh! those were dreary, dreary days to me!
CHAPTER LXXIV.
LOTTIE'S LETTER.
One morning I found a letter on the hall-table, which sent all the blood from my heart. The handwriting I did not know, but it had a foreign post-mark, and that set my hand to trembling as I touched it. The address was to myself.
Jessie was still in the room; so, like a thief, I snatched the precious messenger, and went off to my old place on the Ridge, where I could be sure of solitude. I was breathless on reaching the rock, and sat down with a hand pressed hard against my heart, which throbbed with suffocating violence.
I sat down and tore open the envelope. It was a long, heavy letter, closely written. I recognized the handwriting with a thrill of dread. With a sinking heart I turned over the pages, and saw "Lottie" written on the extreme corner of the last sheet.
"Lottie!" and the letter dated in Paris! What could it mean? It was some moments before I composed myself sufficiently to make out the first few lines, though they were characteristic enough.
"My very dear Miss Hyde," the letter began, "I a'n't much used to writing letters, and it seems to me as if this would be long and hard work; but things must be told, and if I don't write them, who will?
"You thought hard of me, I dare say, for leaving you just as I did; but I thought just the other way about it, and haven't changed my mind yet. It was tough work, though, to get away from home and bid you both good-bye, as I did. I hope to goodness you will never have to go through with anything like it. I could not tell you then what it was that set me off; but I will now.