He raised himself up quickly and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to sweep away some film which hindered his reading, and the silence in that room was terrible as he bent down again.
A strong pang of suffering shot through Duncan Leslie as he saw the old man’s lips quivering, while he read in a slow, laborious way, the few lines contained in the note, and then, after once more making an effort to clear his vision, he seemed to read it again.
“George—brother—why don’t you speak?” said Uncle Luke at last.
George Vine looked up in a curiously dazed way.
“Speak?” he said huskily; “speak?”
“Yes; is that from Louise?”
He bowed his head in assent.
“Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?”
George Vine looked in his brother’s eyes once more—the same curiously dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he slowly placed the note in Luke’s hands.
There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance.