I asked, did she think it was not?
“I think nothing about nothing. I want to smother thought. Child, can't you talk a little? Or stay, read me some of Dr. Urquhart's letters; they are not love letters, so you can have no objection.”
It went hard, Max, indeed it did! till I considered—perhaps, to hear of people more miserable than herself, more wicked than Francis, might not do harm but good to my poor Penelope.
So I was brave enough to take out my letter and read from it, (with reservations now and then, of course), about your daily work and the people concerned therein; all that interests me so much, and makes me feel happier and prouder than any mere “love-letter” written to or about myself. Penelope was interested too, both in the gaol and the hospital matters. They touched that practical, benevolent, energetic half of her, which till lately has made her papa's right hand in the parish. I saw her large black eyes brightening up, till an unfortunate name, upon which I fell unawares, changed all.
Max, I am sure she had heard of Tom Turton. Francis knew him. When I stopped with some excuse, she bade me go on, so I was obliged to finish the miserable history. She then asked:—
“Is Turton dead?”
I said, “No,” and referred to the postscript where you say that both yourself and his poor old ruined father hope Tom Turton may yet live to amend his ways.
Penelope muttered:—
“He never will. Better he died.”
I said Doctor Urquhart did not think so. She shook her head impatiently, exclaiming she was tired, and wished to hear no more, and so fell into one of her long, sullen silences, which sometimes last for hours.