“Could I be bright and you away?”
“Flatterer! I am here now. And here are the lights. And now I have a letter for you.”
“A letter! Oh! give it quickly,” cried Marguerite, thrown off her guard.
“Why, how hasty you are.”
“True; I am daily expecting a letter from Nellie, and I do begin to think that I have nerves. And now, to discipline these excitable nerves, I will not look at the letter until after tea.”
“Pooh, my love, I should much rather you would read it now and get it off your mind,” said Philip Helmstedt, placing her in a chair beside the little stand, and setting a lamp upon it, before he put the letter in her hand.
He watched her narrowly, and saw her lips grow white as she read the postmark and superscription, saw the trembling of her fingers as she broke the seal, and heard the half-smothered exclamation of joy as she glanced at the contents; and then she quickly folded the letter, and was about to put it into her pocket when he spoke.
“Stay!”
“Well!”
“That letter was not from Mrs. Houston.”