Mary’s hand trembled a little as she took the note and glanced at it, to detect the writer at once from a peculiarity which had not been concealed.
“Well,” cried Salis, “I am right?”
Mary shook her head again.
“No, Hartley, it is certainly not Mr North’s writing.”
“Then, in the name of all that’s wonderful, whose is it? The people would not subscribe for it. Besides, it says ‘from a constant attendant.’ Why, good heavens! it cannot be from—”
Mary glanced at Leo, who was intent upon her reading, and then looked back at her brother, with a half-mischievous and amused smile, as she nodded her head.
“You think so, too,” he exclaimed, in a whisper. “Oh!”
There was a look of trouble and perplexity in his face that was intensely droll, for, though no name had been mentioned, both had hit upon the donor; and as the trouble deepened in the curate’s face, Mary stretched out her hand to him, and he took it, and sat down by her side.
“It’s impossible,” he whispered. “I could not think of taking it. How could she be so foolish?”
“It seems cruel to call it foolish,” said Mary gently. “The idea was prompted by a very kindly feeling.”