I was in a rage. I looked up, expecting to see my uncle as indignant with the diabolical woman as I was myself. But he seemed sunk in reverie, his body present, his spirit far away. A pang shot through my heart. Could the wicked device have told already?
“May I ask, uncle,” I said, and tried hard to keep my voice steady, “how you mean to answer this vile epistle?”
He looked up with a wan smile, such as might have broke from Lazarus when he found himself again in his body.
“I will take it to the young man,” he answered.
“Please, let us go at once then, uncle! I cannot sit still.”
He rose, and we went together to John's room.
He was much better—sitting up in bed, and eating the breakfast Penny had carried him.
“I have just had a letter from your mother, Day,” said my uncle.
“Indeed!” returned John dryly.
“Will you read it, and tell me what answer you would like me to return.”