What had he to offer, etc., for half a dozen almost illegible pages, dashed and crossed, and all on fire with his bitterness and pain.
Having taken it from Aimée, and read it for the twentieth time, Dolly fairly wrung her hands over it.
“If we were only just together!” she cried. “If we only just had the tiniest, shabbiest house in the world, and could be married and help each other! He does n't mean to be unjust or unkind, you know, Aimée; he would be more wretched than I am if he knew how unhappy he has made me.”
“Ah!” sighed Aimée. “He should think of that before he begins.”
Then she regained possession of the letter, and smoothed out its creases on her knee, finishing by folding it carefully and returning it to its envelope, looking very grave all the time.
“Will you lend me this?” she said at last, holding the epistle up.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Dolly, disconsolately.
“I am going to ask Griffith to read it again. I shall be sure to see him to-morrow night.”
“Very well,” answered Dolly; “but don't be too hard upon him, Aimée. He has a great deal to bear.”
“I know that,” said Aimée. “And sometimes he bears it very well; but just now he needs a little advice.”