Yes, it was from Jehiel.
She drew a long breath. Her eager thumb was almost under the flap of the envelope when she hesitated, eyed the letter uncertainly, and thrust it into the pocket of her calico gown. All day it lay there, save at times-- which, indeed, were of frequent occurrence--when she took it from its hiding-place, pressed it to her cheek, or gloried in every curve of the boldly written address.
At night, after the lamp was lighted, she said to her husband in tones so low he could scarcely hear:
“Thaddeus, I--I had a letter from Jehiel to-day.”
“You did--and never told me? Why, Harriet, what--” He paused helplessly.
“I--I haven’t read it, Thaddeus,” she stammered. “I couldn’t bear to, someway. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t. You read it!” She held out the letter with shaking hands.
He took it, giving her a sharp glance from anxious eyes. As he began to read aloud she checked him.
“No; ter yerself, Thaddeus--ter yerself! Then--tell me.”
As he read she watched his face. The light died from her eyes and her chin quivered as she saw the stern lines deepen around his mouth. A minute more, and he had finished the letter and laid it down without a word.
“Thaddeus, ye don’t mean--he didn’t say--”