He had just, caught by the musical sound, made her read to him a second time Marlowe’s verses,
‘Come live with me and be my love,’
and informed her that his Nana was his love, and that she was to watch him fish in the summer rivers, when the servant who had been sent to meet His Majesty’s mail and extract the Weekly Gazette came in, bringing not only that, but a thick, sealed packet, the aspect of which made the boy dance and exclaim, “A packet from my papa! Oh! will he have written an answer to my own letter to him?”
But Sir Philip, who had started up at the opening of the door, had no sooner glanced at the packet than he cried out, “’Tis not his hand!” and when he tried to break the heavy seals and loosen the string, his hands shook so much that he pushed it over to Anne, saying, “You open it; tell me if my boy is dead.”
Anne’s alarm took the course of speed. She tore off the wrapper, and after one glance said, “No, no, it cannot be the worst; here is something from himself at the end. Here, sir.”
“I cannot! I cannot,” said the poor old man, as the tears dimmed his spectacles, and he could not adjust them. “Read it, my dear wench, and let me know what I am to tell his poor mother.”
And he sank into a chair, holding between his knees his little grandson, who stood gazing with widely-opened blue eyes.
“He sends love, duty, blessing. Oh, he talks of coming home, so do not fear, sir!” cried Anne, a vivid colour on her cheeks.
“But what is it?” asked the father. “Tell me first—the rest after.”
“It is in the side—the left side,” said Anne, gathering up in her agitation the sense of the crabbed writing as best she could. “They have not extracted the bullet, but when they have, he will do well.”