Meanwhile, the Churchwarden had gone on to the farm, and entered by the kitchen door, where Mrs Portlock was busy dividing her attention between scolding the maids and mincing meat for sausages.
He gave her a short nod, and went on into the parlour, treading upon the mats so as to make no sound, and there finding Sage so preoccupied that, as she sat with her back to him, she did not notice her uncle’s entrance.
Pen, ink, and paper were before her, and on her right an envelope.
This was directed in a plain, clear hand—so plain that the farmer could easily read it from where he stood.
It bore the name of Luke Ross, and she had prepared the envelope before writing her letter, for upon the sheet of paper was the date, and then came the three words, “My dear Luke.”
That was all, and the marks that followed upon the paper were made by tears.
“It is like living a lie,” he heard her say, with a passionate sigh; and then she started up, for she became aware of her uncle’s presence in the room.
“Why, Sage, lass,” he said, gently, “do you always cry over your letters to Luke Ross?”
She looked piteously in his face, but said no word.
“Is it because he is so long away, my lass? Well, well, we shall have him back these holidays, and it won’t be long.”