“But what is it all about? May I read the letter?”
“If you like,” answered Euphra, listlessly.
Harry read the letter with quivering features. Then, laying it down on the table with a reverential slowness, went to Euphra, put his arms round her and kissed her.
“Dear, dear Euphra, I did not know you were so unhappy. I will find God for you. But first I will—what shall I do to the bad man? Who is it? I will—”
Harry finished the sentence by setting his teeth hard.
“Oh! you can’t do anything for me, Harry, dear. Only mind you don’t say anything about it to any one. Put the letter in the fire there for me.”
“No—that I won’t,” said Harry, taking up the letter, and holding it tight. “It is a beautiful letter, and it does me good. Don’t you think, though it is not sent to God himself, he may read it, and take it for a prayer?”
“I wish he would, Harry.”
“But it was very wrong of you, Euphra, dear, to speak as you did to the daughter of such a good man.”
“Yes, it was.”