"Open it quickly,—quickly, Letty," says her sister, and Letitia hastens and reads it with much solemnity.
It is short and rather reckless in tone. It tells them the writer, having effected the desired exchange, hopes to start for India in two weeks at furthest, and that, as he had never at any time contemplated leaving England without bidding Mrs. Massereene good-bye, he would seize the opportunity—she being now alone (heavily dashed)—to run down to Brooklyn to see her this very day.
"Oh, Letty! to-day!" exclaims Molly, paling and flushing, and paling again. "How I wish it was tomorrow!"
"Could there be any one more inconsistent than you, my dear Molly? You have been praying for three whole weeks to see him, and now your prayer is answered you look absolutely miserable."
"It is so sudden," says poor Molly. "And—he never mentioned my name. What if he refuses to have anything to say to me even now? What shall I do then?"
"Nonsense, my dear! When once he sees you, he will forget all his ridiculous pride, and throw himself, like a sensible man, at your feet."
"I wish I could think so. Letty,"—tearfully, and in a distinctly wheedling tone,—"wouldn't you speak to him?"
"Indeed I would not," says Letitia, indignantly. "What, after writing that lie! No, you must of course see him yourself. And, indeed, my dear child,"—laughing,—"you have only to meet him, wearing the lugubrious expression you at present exhibit, to melt his heart, were it the stoniest one in Europe. See,"—drawing her to a mirror,—"was there ever such a Dolores?"
Seeing her own forlorn visage, Molly instantly laughs, thereby ruining forever the dismal look of it that might have stood her in such good stead.
"I suppose he will dine," says Letitia, thoughtfully. "I must go speak to cook."