“Oh, well,” said the girl, blushing. “Of course if you feel that way about it, I——”
“That’s the way I feel all right. But you won’t give up the idea of helping me, will you, because I—feel like that?”
“No,” answered Caroline softly, “I’ll help you all I can—about that letter, do you mean?”
“Yes, about that letter and about other things, too.”
“Give it to me,” said the girl, “I will go over it again.”
She sat down at the desk, and as she scanned it, Wilfred watched her anxiously. To them Mrs. Varney entered. She had an open letter in one hand and a cap and belt in the other. She stopped in the doorway and motioned for some one in the hall to follow her, and an orderly entered the room. His uniform was covered with dust, his sunburned, grim face was covered with sweat and dust also. He stood in the doorway with the ease of a veteran soldier, that is without the painful effort to be precise or formal which marks the young aspirant for military honours.
“Wilfred,” said Mrs. Varney, quickly approaching him, “here is a letter from your father.” She extended the paper. “He sent it by his orderly.”
Wilfred stepped closer to the elder woman while Caroline slowly rose from her chair, her eyes fixed on Mrs. Varney.
“What does he say, mother?” asked Wilfred.
“He says——” answered his mother with measured quietness, and controlling herself with the greatest difficulty, “he tells me that—that you—are——” in spite of her tremendous effort, her voice failed her. “Read it yourself, my boy,” she whispered pitifully.