Dunham smiled down at his pile of correspondence. "Absence hasn't made the heart grow any fonder," he reflected. "The governor's interest in Curly Head appears to be about where it was."
Then he thought of Miss Lacey and the contrasting eagerness with which she would greet a letter from Maine. He breathed an involuntary sigh of satisfaction that whatever the bulletin his own responsibility in the matter was over, and that the lesson he had received concerning the unwisdom of rushing in where relatives feared to tread was likely to last during his lifetime.
"'M, h'm," breathed the judge at last, laying down the paper and setting his hat a little farther back on his head. His thought was evidently still busy with the morning news as his eyes moved vacantly to the letter; but beginning to read, the corners of his lips drew down, not in scorn, but with a movement habitual to him when interested.
He read slowly; even read the letter twice. It ran as follows:—
"Dear Cal,—Laura's little girl was very willing to come up here with me, and I was exceedingly glad to bring her, for poor influences in her life have made her a victim. I've had several talks with her. She has received only a desultory education, and isn't fitted for any life-work. She has been fed on froth mentally, and in Sam's worst straits has evidently never been obliged to do anything more severe in the way of manual labor than to mend her father's clothes; but withal she is innocent and honest, and not to blame, in the absence of a mother or any wise guidance, for not rising higher than her father's standards. You and Martha gave her heart and pride a great shock. Her mother used always to talk much about you in particular, and taught her little girl to kiss your picture good-night. So you can understand the surprise and disappointment of the sequel. You know what Laura meant to me, and while I would in any case do what I could for this child, it is my pleasure, and in your and Martha's default, seems to be my duty, to assume charge of her. I have determined upon this, for the girl is a starved specimen, and very needy. I tell you this in advance in case the new responsibility should take me away from the farm for any reason, so that all may be understood, and we may be guided. Edna Derwent looked in on us for one night. She says Martha is to be with her again this summer, and bade me beg you to take time to call on her the next time you are in Boston. She is exulting in her summer's prospect of sea, sky, and freedom, in her usual winning manner. Her parents are to travel with friends for some time, leaving Edna to be a child again. She says she is often tempted to feel old and tired."
The rest of the letter was devoted to mention of the farm matters, and Judge Trent glanced through it with a careless frown. The increasing absorption with which he had made his perusal roused Dunham's curiosity. Twice the lawyer's feelings carried him to the pitch of audible expression. His exclamations were brief and monotonous. When he arrived at the point describing his niece's caressing his picture he slowly ejaculated, "Get out." And when the matter concerned Thinkright's renouncing his care of the farm the reader made use of the same words, vigorously varying the emphasis thus: "Get out."
John speculated upon the information Judge Trent was receiving. Perhaps Sylvia had revolted against being immured on a New England farm and had escaped to Nat.
The judge dropped the letter and stared ahead of him. Thinkright's implied accusation nettled him more than all Miss Martha's tearful reproaches. For the first time his duty toward his niece presented itself as so reasonable as to be impossible of escape.
He looked at Dunham, who sedulously did not look at him. The young man was thinking of a mignonne face as he had last seen it with quivering lips, trying to smile in response to his encouraging parting words. At last the judge spoke:—