Always faithfully yours.
Mr. George Cattermole.
Devonshire Terrace, December 21st.
My dear George,
Kit, the single gentleman, and Mr. Garland go down to the place where the child is, and arrive there at night. There has been a fall of snow. Kit, leaving them behind, runs to the old house, and, with a lanthorn in one hand and the bird in its cage in the other, stops for a moment at a little distance with a natural hesitation before he goes up to make his presence known. In a window—supposed to be that of the child's little room—a light is burning, and in that room the child (unknown, of course, to her visitors, who are full of hope) lies dead.
If you have any difficulty about Kit, never mind about putting him in.
The two others to-morrow.
Faithfully always.
Mr. George Cattermole.
Devonshire Terrace, Friday Morning.