"Good morning, uncle. I've brought some awfully sad and awfully sudden news. Here's a letter from Clack. I rode early to Chagford about another letter I expected, and found this waiting, so saved the postman. Christopher Yeoland—he has gone—he is dead."
"Dead! So young—so full of life! What killed him?"
"Died of a snake-bite near Paramatta. It's an orange-growing district near Sydney, so the doctor says. He was there with his cousin—an old settler—a survivor from a cadet branch of the family, I fancy. And it seems that it was Yeoland's wish to lie at home—his last wish."
"Then no doubt Clack will look to it. Gone! Hard to credit, very hard to credit."
"I'm thinking of Honor. It will be your task to tell her, I fear. My God! I can't believe this. I had hoped for something so different. She loved him—she loved him still."
"Is there any reason why she should not read the letter?" asked Mr. Endicott.
"None—not a line she need not see. It is very short—cynically short for Clack. He was probably dazed when he wrote; as I am now."
"Give it to me, then. I will go up to her at once. Yes, I must tell her—the sooner the better."
But Honor Endicott knew already. She had heard through her casement, and stood like a stone woman staring up into the blue sky when Mark knocked at her door.
"Come in, uncle," she said; and then continued, as he entered groping, "I have heard what you want to say. So you are spared that. Give me the letter and I will read it to you."