Lavinia, who had not been able to resist a pang that Marley had written his mother quite as promptly as he had written her, found some consolation in the fact that his letter to his mother was not nearly so long as his letter to her, and it contained, too, the same information; in some instances, identical phrases, as letters do that are written at the same time. She felt that she should be happy in them both, and she wished she could determine which of the letters had been written first. After she had read Mrs. Marley’s letter, she could not speak for a moment; the letter closed with a description of the sensations it gave Marley to open his trunk and come across the Bible his mother had packed in it. But she controlled herself, and when she had finished reading parts of her own letter to Mrs. Marley, she said:
“Well, he seems to be in good spirits, doesn’t he? He writes so amusingly of everything.”
Mrs. Marley looked up at Lavinia with a curious smile.
“Why, don’t you see?” she said.
“What?” asked Lavinia, glancing in alarm at the two letters which she still held in her lap.
“Why, the poor boy is dying of homesickness; that’s what makes him write in that mocking vein.”
“Do you think that is so?” Lavinia leaned forward.
“Why, I know it,” replied Mrs. Marley, with a little laugh. “He’s just like his father.”
For a moment Lavinia felt a satisfaction in Marley’s loneliness, but she denied the satisfaction when she said:
“He’ll get over it, after a while.”