At a quick sound of hoofs and wheels, both started; and the next moment the telegraph boy drove up close to the railing and held up a yellow envelope.
"One dollar for delivery," said he; "that's night rates. This come jest as the office was shetting up, and Mr. Martin said I'd got to deliver it to-night; but I couldn't come till the moon was up."
Cicely, who was nearer, seized the telegram before Ralph could get it.
"Drive round to the back of the house," she said to the boy, "and I will bring you the money."
She held the telegram, though Ralph had seized it.
"Don't be too quick," she said, "don't be too quick. There, you will tear it in half. Let me open it for you."
She deftly drew the envelope from his hand, and spread the telegram on the broad rail of the piazza, on which the moon shone full. Instantly their heads were close together.
"I cannot read it," groaned Ralph; "my eyes are—"
"I can," interrupted Cicely, and she read aloud the message, which ran thus,—
"Fear news of accident may trouble you. We are all well. Have written.
Miriam Haverley."