She laughed. "John Murray never saw it. I left it on the hall table that night, and was going to register it myself in the morning. When my father came in late he noticed it, and opened it."
"Well——?"
Somehow he never forgot the feel of the room at that moment, or the chill sound of the next words as they fell on his waiting ears.
"He burnt it." After a little while she went on: "He was horrified by it. I suppose it was not very proper, written by a young girl, and he had never known that I understood about such things, but of course I did, after the adventure of poor Kitty Bailey. Ring the bell, will you, Oliver? It's growing very dark."
He rang, and while the lamp was being brought he knelt on the old hearthrug and mended the fire. In a few moments the crude, unlovely room was piteously bright, and the mystery had flown.
"Weren't you very angry?" Wick asked, as the door closed on the maid.
"I? Oh, no. It was he who was angry—my father. I think he was too hard on me, but it didn't matter very much. It was probably very badly written, though at the time I thought it was good."
Wick held out his hand. "Well, I must be off. Thank you so much for telling me, Mrs. Walbridge. Did you go on writing at once then?"
Her thin, small-boned hand quivered in his as she answered:
"Oh, no. I didn't write again until—until after my marriage."