"I have been writing a letter," he said, "and am now looking for some colored boy who will carry it for me."
"Who is it to?" she asked.
"Miss March," was his answer.
"Let me see it," said Annie.
At this, Lawrence looked at her with wide-open eyes, and then he laughed. Never, since he had been a child, had there been any one who would have thought of such a thing as asking to see a private letter which he had written to some one else; and that this young girl should stand up before him with her straightforward expectant gaze and make such a request of him, in the first instance, amused him.
"You don't mean to say," she added, "that you would write anything to
Miss March which you would not let me see."
"This letter," said Lawrence, "was written for Miss March, and no one else. It is simply the winding up of that old affair."
"Give it to me," said Annie, "and let me see how you wound it up."
Lawrence smiled, looked at her in silence for a moment, and then handed her the letter.
"I don't want you to think," she said, as she took it, "that I am going to ask you to show me all the letters you write. But when you write one to a lady like Miss March, I want to know what you say to her." And then she read the letter. When she had finished, she turned to Lawrence, and with her countenance full of amazement, exclaimed: "I haven't the least idea in the world what all this means! What message did she send you? And why should you meet her under a tree?"