“True, Becky. By the by, I have a letter from an old friend will interest you. Oh such startling news?”
Becky colored, yet compressed her lips resolutely. Always that old friend.
“From Alice Parks?” she said.
“Yes, from Alice Parks. You know what an interest I take in that young lady’s welfare, and you shall share in my delight. Look at that.”
He handed her a letter; she took it with a pang of uneasiness; mechanically unfolded it. There dropped from it two cards, fastened with white ribbon. Harry picked up the cards and handed them to her. She glanced at them.
“O, Harry! she’s married!”
“Certainly. Mr. George Woodfern and Miss Alice Parks, after a long and patient courtship, have united their destinies. The designing young woman having engraved herself upon the heart of the young engraver, the new firm is ready for business.”
“O, Harry, I’m so sorry!” faltered Becky.
“Sorry? for what, pray? They’ll be very happy.”
“Sorry for you, Harry. They will be happy; but you—you—you loved her so dearly—didn’t you?”