"I am,
"Ever with respect,
"Your dearly loving Daughter,
"Dahlia."
"Dahlia Blank!" said the farmer, turning his look from face to face.
A deep fire of emotion was evidently agitating him, for the letter rustled in his hand, and his voice was uneven. Of this, no sign was given by his inexpressive features. The round brown eyes and the ruddy varnish on his cheeks were a mask upon grief, if not also upon joy.
"Dahlia—what? What's her name?" he resumed. "Here—'my husband will bring me to see you'—who's her husband? Has he got a name? And a blank envelope to her uncle here, who's kept her in comfort for so long! And this is all she writes to me! Will any one spell out the meaning of it?"
"Dahlia was in great haste, father," said Rhoda.
"Oh, ay, you!—you're the one, I know," returned the farmer. "It's sister and sister, with you."
"But she was very, very hurried, father. I have a letter from her, and I have only 'Dahlia' written at the end—no other name."
"And you suspect no harm of your sister."
"Father, how can I imagine any kind of harm?"