“Ah, if he had but been, as thoughtful of himself!” murmured Leonard; and he seated himself by the table, on which, as he leaned his elbow, he dislodged some papers placed there. They fell to the ground with a dumb, moaning, sighing sound.—
“What is that?” said he, starting.
The old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully.
“Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might keep you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. And he had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the poor young lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me as he is; dearer perhaps until now—when—when I am about to lose him!”
Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they had no interest for him at such a moment. The hostess went on,
“Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him; she did not look like one long for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers besides these papers are still, here; but I keep them aired and dusted, and strew lavender over them, in case she ever come for them again. You never heard tell of her, did you, sir?” she added, with great simplicity, and dropping a half courtesy.
“Of her—of whom?”
“Did not Mr. John tell you her name—dear, dear; Mrs. Bertram.”
Leonard started; the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley L’Estrange!
“Bertram!” he repeated. “Are you sure?”