“Oh, I had such a sweet dream. I saw his face, and he looked at me with such kindly eyes,” came from Mollie as though an angel were speaking, and she closed her eyes and smiled as though she were an infant again.
“God be praised,” whispered her mother. “My darling girl may be saved.”
Now the days seemed brighter and the nights shorter. Mollie began to gather strength. In a week she was able to see her father and talk to him for five minutes while she held his hand in hers.
In three weeks she was able to drive in the carriage on mild days. But her heart seemed heavy. She watched for the mail. She thought that he could not have given her up without a word. Weeks grew into months and the spring came and the summer passed yet no word from the one she knew was dearer to her than life.
But on a bright day in October, nearly a year from the time when Mollie was taken ill, a large, brawny man approached the portico where Mollie was seated, and raising his hat, he asked:
“Is this Dorminghurst?”
“Yes,” replied Mollie.
“I have a letter here for Miss Greydon.” And the hardened hand of the man placed a packet in Mollie’s fingers.
“Why, it is from Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Mollie.
“Where did you get it, sir?” asked Mollie.