"Oh, dear me! I believe I've given you the wrong letter," exclaimed Mrs. Platt, in great confusion. "Here! this must be your uncle's,"—extending her hand as she spoke. "I'm getting so blind, and this room is so dark, I really can't see what I'm doing," she added, in a rather apologetic tone, her eyes sinking before her niece's,—for she saw in them that she had read what Carrie had written; as for Helen, her heart beat unusually fast, her nerves were on edge, her wrath was kindled.
"Quite out of the question that we should take her in!" She had never dreamt of being lodged again under her aunt's roof, but somehow, seeing the fact so plainly stated in black and white, stung her to revolt.
What had her aunt and cousins done for her, that she should be sent hither or thither at their bidding? She had toiled for them, as an upper servant, a lady help, in return for food and lodging, and she was now wholly independent, and earning her own living by incessant hard work. These thoughts flew through her mind as she opened letter No. 2, which was written in a small cramped hand on a large sheet of paper, and ran as follows:—
"Crowmore,
"Terryscreen, May 8th.
"Dear Madam,—I am this day in receipt of your communication, informing me that my late wife's niece, Helen Denis, is in England, an orphan, and entirely dependent on her friends."—"Dependent on her friends!" re-read Helen, quivering with indignation and self-restraint—"I shall be glad to give her a home under my roof, and if you will favour me with her address I shall correspond with her personally, and make all needful arrangements for her journey to this place.
"I am, Madam,
"Your obedient servant,
"Malachi Sheridan."
"A very kind letter," said his niece, gratefully.