“A letter to me? You jest, surely?”
“That I am in earnest, this will show,” said I, producing the packet.
She took it from my hands, turned it about and about, examined the seal; while, half doubtingly, she said:—
“The name is mine; but still—”
“You fear to open it; is it not so? But after all, you need not be surprised if it’s from Howard; that’s his name, I think.”
“Howard! from little Howard!” exclaimed she, enthusiastically; and tearing open the letter, she pressed it to her lips, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her cheek glowing as she read. I watched her as she ran rapidly over the lines; and I confess that, more than once, a pang of discontent shot through my heart that the midshipman’s letter could call up such interest,—not that I was in love with her myself, but yet, I know not how it was, I had fancied her affections unengaged; and without asking myself wherefore, I wished as much.
“Poor dear boy!” said she, as she came to the end. How these few and simple words sank into my heart, as I remembered how they had once been uttered to myself, and in perhaps no very dissimilar circumstances.
“But where is the souvenir he speaks of?” said she.
“The souvenir. I’m not aware—”
“Oh, I hope you’ve not lost the lock of hair he sent me!” I was quite dumfounded at this, and could not remember whether I had received it from Power or not, so answered, at random,—