It was a burning hot afternoon, and Daniel had now been an invalid for seven weeks. Lefloch raised him on his pillows, stowed him away, as he called it; and the surgeon handed him his letters.
Daniel uttered a cry of delight.
At the first glance he had recognized on three of the envelopes Henrietta’s handwriting. He kissed them, and said,—
“At last she writes!”
The shock was so violent, that the doctor was almost frightened.
“Be calm, my dear friend,” he said. “Be calm! Be a man, forsooth!”
But Daniel only smiled, and replied,—
“Never mind me, doctor; you know joy is never dangerous; and nothing but joy can come to me from her who writes to me. However, just see how calm I am!”
So calm, that he did not even take the time to see which was the oldest of his letters.
He opened one of them at haphazard, and read:—