Out of the room she darted, leaving Patty, with cheeks aflame, to wonder how far her secret had been divined.
The postman brought no letter for Flossy; but at the same hour, in another part of the city, an epistle was delivered bearing the Montfield postmark. Miss Sturtevant tore it open in her cheerless room, and read as follows:—
Montfield, Nov. 26.
Dear Flora,—Peter Mixon is getting worse, instead of better, every day. I have tried my best to get what I want; but there's always a crew of women about him, and he's as obstinate as a mule. If you could come down, you'd be in the house with him, and you might do something. Of course, if you get the paper I would make it a good thing for you. Can't you come this week? Patty Sanford is always round him when she is here; but she is in Boston now, and you'd have a better chance before she gets back. At all events, come as soon as you can.
Yours truly,
Frank Breck.
"Uncle Jacob," Flora said to herself, refolding the letter, "I shall go to Montfield to-night. Don't you hope I may give you those papers when I get them?"
[CHAPTER XXXVIII.]
A TEST OF CIVILIZATION.
"Now we shall see," Mr. Plant remarked to his niece as he led her down to dinner, "what stuff Mr. Blood is made of. There is no more crucial test of a man's civilization than the way in which he dines."