“My dear, she left a letter for you. And I ought to have sent it over before this. But you see I had nobody to send it by but one of my daughters. And we are all so busy working upon a lot of havelocks that must be finished by Saturday, that we can’t take time to eat or sleep, or hardly to say our prayers. But I did mean to steal time to bring the letter over to you this blessed evening. I will go and get it now,” said the widow, leaving the room.
“Gone! I can scarcely realize it. Though indeed she has often hinted to me that she might leave the city at any moment,” said Erminie, as she arose to receive the letter from the landlady when the latter returned to the room and put it into her hand.
Britomarte’s letter was dated on the very evening of the day on which Justin’s regiment had marched. It was written in Miss Conyers’ usually firm and clear chirography, and ran thus:
“My Dear and Gentle Friend:—Duty, or what I believe to be such, calls me hence very suddenly. I have no time to bid you farewell in person, even if I could trust myself to such a parting interview. From time to time I will write and let you know where and how I am. I hope that you also will keep me advised of your well-being. For the present, a letter addressed ‘B. C., Baltimore Post Office, till called for,’ will find me. Give my love to Elfie. And, dear and good Erminie, accept my love and my prayers, which are always offered up for you.
Britomarte.”
When Erminie had finished reading this letter, she dropped again into her chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept.
Mrs. Burton brought her a glass of water, saying:
“Drink this, my dear; it will revive you.”
Erminie drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the landlady, and said:
“Dear Mrs. Burton, please tell me all about it. She went away the evening she wrote this letter, or the next morning?”