"But thro' the many worlds to come, my feet
No more shall roam.
The light from thy dear face at last my sweet
Will bring me home.
"To you always, my dear Pitt,
"Borthwicke"
I was dimly conscious of the uproar which arose in the court-room, for I was away in a by-gone time, a vision before me, clear as a picture, of a sunny room, myself at a writing-desk overlooking accounts, and a small curly haired child poring over a book on the rug at my feet
"Nancy made it just like Jock's!"
"Nancy made it just like Jock's!"
I can recall the fear that seized me as the duke's letter was being examined by those familiar with his writings; the chill I felt as Blake, who knew his hand the best, was summoned to inspect it; my terror as he hesitated, with all the time that sing-song refrain going over and over in my head, so loud that I was afraid that everyone in the court would hear it; and then, far away and little, like a wood-call, "Nancy made it——" And when Blake and Dundas identified the writing, and O'Sullivan, the duke's own secretary, declared that not only would he be willing to swear to his belief of the duke's hand, but to the spirit of the document as well, I put my head on the back of Danvers's chair to hide the tears which rolled down my cheeks, tears of relief, but springing from a very different cause than the one attributed for them.