John was not asleep, he also was merely meditating; but if he had been a very Rip Van Winkle this cry of agony would have roused him. He started violently—as well he might—from his seat, looked at Mary, and crumpled the letter into a shapeless ball.
“You didn’t see?” he asked hoarsely.
“No, but I know. I mean I saw the heading, and knew it must be from him. Oh, John!”
“From him!”
“Yes. He’s—he’s staying there. Oh, John! Really I’ll never see or speak to him again. Really I won’t. Oh, you can trust me, John. See! I’ll hide nothing. Here’s his letter! You see I’ve sent him away?”
And she took from her pocket Charlie’s letter, and in her noble fidelity (to John—the less we say about poor Charlie the better) handed it to him.
“What’s this?” asked John, in bewilderment. “Who’s it from?”
“Charlie Ellerton,” she stammered.
“Who’s Charlie Ellerton? I never heard—but am I to read it?”
“Yes, please, I—I think you’d better.”