Two days after Russell Ely had brought her up the hill, an envelope with David’s well-known superscription was put into Polly’s hand. At first it seemed no more than the envelope itself, so thin it was. Then Polly saw that a single sheet was inside.
“Guess he was in a hurry,” she told herself, as she hastened up to her room.
She sat down by the broad window and noted the slight unevenness of the address. David’s chirography was a continual wonder to Polly, every line, every curve, according to rule. To-day, however, the “P” was a wee bit out of proportion, the “D” was slightly out of alignment, while the name showed a trifling tendency to run downhill.
“Well!” she exclaimed under her breath, “what’s going to happen?” She dwelt upon it with a smile. Then she took up her paper-cutter and ran it under the flap.
Her fingers were growing eager, and with a happy flutter of heart she pulled out the sheet.
As she started to read, her face held a smile, but instantly a stare swept it away. Her eyes seemed to pierce the paper. They blazed with something like anger.
“‘Appeal’!” she muttered scornfully, “‘appeal,’ indeed!”
The letter fluttered to the floor, her hands went up to her face, and she began to cry.
“Oh, David! David!” she whispered, “how could you! It isn’t true! You know it isn’t true!”
She sat there a long time. Then she picked up the sheet and read it again. Her face grew hard and resentful.