“Open it, sister,” implored Miss Dorinda. And after scrutinizing it thoroughly once more, Miss Priscilla did open it.
“It is signed ‘Thomas J. Bond,’” she exclaimed, looking at the signature. “Now, can it be Tom Bond who was old Jonathan Bond’s son? His mother was a Coriell.”
“Read it, sister,” said Miss Dorinda.
So Miss Priscilla read the letter aloud, and this is what it said:
Miss Priscilla Flint,
Dear Madam:
During a recent visit to India I learned that a friend of mine, Jack Lovell, was living at Bombay, and I went there to see him. But it was my sad experience to reach his home the day after he had died from a sudden attack of fever. He left a little child, who told me that her mother had been dead many years, and, indeed, the poor child seemed utterly alone in the world. I tried to find out from Lovell’s papers something about his effects, but as he was of a roving and careless disposition, everything was left at sixes and sevens, and I am afraid there is no provision for the child. Therefore, since Jack’s wife was your sister, I think the right thing to do is to send the little girl to you at once. And if I can find any money or property belonging to her I will advise you later.
My wife and I brought her from India to London with us, and I will send her to you on the next steamer.
Trusting that this letter will insure her a kindly reception, I am
Yours very respectfully, Thomas J. Bond.
To say that after reading this remarkable letter Miss Priscilla appeared surprised, amazed, astounded, excited, irritated, angry, umbrageous, furious, or even to say that she was in a state of high dudgeon, would give but an inadequate idea of the indignation shown in her face and manner.
But she only said, “She cannot come!” and snapped her teeth shut in the way she always did when very decided.
“But she’ll have to come, sister,” said Miss Dorinda; “how will you prevent her?”
“Well, then, she cannot stay,” said Miss Priscilla, with another snap; “I will send her back just as I did Ann Haskell. Why, think of it, Dorinda! Think of a child living in this house! She’d very likely leave doors open, and she’d be sure to chatter when we wished to be quiet, and she’d fairly worry us into our graves.”
“Yes,” said Miss Dorinda, “I suppose she would. But I don’t see how you can send her away.”