There was something so heavenly and bewitching in the expression of the face of this fair young creature that Peace felt abashed and crest-fallen in her presence. He found it impossible to meet the glance of her dark, lustrous eyes without quailing. Conscious of his own weakness in this respect, he was fearful lest it might be observed by others.
He therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself, passed out of the room unobserved, and crept along the passage towards the side door, by means of which he gained the street.
Then he breathed again more freely.
He saw Bessie Dalton and Mrs. Bristow some distance ahead, in company with a gentleman, and walked on quickly, that he might overtake them; but his progress was checked by a shabby, dilapidated-looking man addressing him—
“Be your name Peace, sir?” inquired that personage.
“Maybe it is, and maybe it is not. What matters it to you?”
“I’ve got a letter.”
“Indeed. Who from?”
“I don’t know the party’s name, but he said I was to give it to you.”
Peace snatched a dirty piece of paper from the speaker’s hand, opened it, and read the following words, which were written in a miserable scrawl—