“Dear John”—no, that was too cold. “My own dearest John”—no, that was too warm! “Dearest John;” yes, May thought that would do. Was he not her dearest John? Not only her dearest John, but the dearest to her of all on earth.
May thought this as she went on with her letter. She told him how good and kind Miss Webster and Miss Eliza were to her, and she told him also of all the places and amusements they had taken her to see.
“Their nephew, Mr. Ralph Webster, has gone with us generally, also,” she added; “but oh! how I wish you were here, John. It all seems like a beautiful new world to me, but I miss you always. Still you must run no risks for my sake. And John, dear John, do keep out of the way of that wretched Mr. Henderson. Somehow I am afraid of him, though I know he can do you no harm. But he is a passionate-tempered man, I am certain, and cruel, as we know after the way he behaved to that poor, poor girl who shot herself. I wonder if her spirit ever haunts him? Her memory must, I am certain, for no doubt he broke her heart.”
After she had once begun her letter May found it quite easy to go on. It seemed almost as if she were talking to John; telling him her thoughts as she had done in the still garden at Woodside, when no one was by to listen. Note-sheet after note-sheet she filled with this fond prattling, until she suddenly remembered with dismay that hers would be such a big letter for Miss Webster to inclose to John. Still she could not part with one word. She pressed her sheets together as tightly as she could, and then went somewhat nervously down-stairs with her letter in her hand to seek Miss Webster.
Miss Eliza had gone out to change her novel at the nearest library, for Miss Eliza was a great lover of fiction, and thus May found Miss Webster alone in the dining-room industriously engaged in marking some household linen. May felt that she colored painfully when Miss Webster raised her kind eyes as she entered the room and greeted May with a smile.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “Eliza says you feel rather tired this morning, and I am sorry for that. Is there anything you would like? A glass of port wine before lunch?”
“Oh! no, Miss Webster,” answered May with a smile and a pretty blush. “There is really nothing the matter with me—only I had a letter to write—to Mr. Temple.”
“To Mr. Temple?” repeated Miss Webster, looking at the fair face of her young guest.
“Yes, he asked me to write,” went on May, nervously; “and—and—Miss Webster, he—”
“Well, my dear, what is it?” asked Miss Webster, gently, as May paused and hesitated.