Fair wrung her hands together; she felt defeat closing about her.
“Those fields that you talked about—don’t you want to make them green and golden again, too?”
“They are very tired, those fields,” said the man. “Shall we not let them rest?”
“Oh!” cried Fair, and the valiant voice struggled and broke. “Oh, how can you—oh, oh, how can you?”
“Fair——”
He was on his feet at last—the swift move sent the paper flying, and it came fluttering irresponsibly across the sunlit space between them, dancing to a halt almost at her feet. It had blown open, and her incredulous eyes were riveted on the letterhead—the little thick black letters spelling out the name of Dad’s attorney, Henry C. Forrester, Wall Street—she stared down blankly:
Dear Sir—
In further reply to your request for full details as to the fortune left Miss Carter by her father——
A wave of scarlet swept over her from heel to brow; she felt as though she were drowning, she felt as though she were being buried alive, she felt as though a bolt of lightning had passed clean through her body, leaving her quite dead and still.
“So that’s what you are?” she said. “You—you! I might have known.”
“What I am?” His voice was touched with a little wonder. “No, but I do not understand; what is it that I am?”