Rhoda went out on the landing and said softly, "Come up to her, father."
After a little hesitation, he ascended the stairs.
"Why, girl, I only ask you to come down and see your husband," he remarked with an attempt at kindliness of tone. "What's the harm, then? Come and see him; that's all; come and see him."
Dahlia was shrinking out of her father's sight as he stood in the doorway. "Say," she communicated to Rhoda, "say, I want my letter."
"Come!" William Fleming grew impatient.
"Let her have her letter, father," said Rhoda. "You have no right to withhold it."
"That letter, my girl" (he touched Rhoda's shoulder as to satisfy her that he was not angry), "that letter's where it ought to be. I've puzzled out the meaning of it. That letter's in her husband's possession."
Dahlia, with her ears stretching for all that might be uttered, heard this. Passing round the door, she fronted her father.
"My letter gone to him!" she cried. "Shameful old man! Can you look on me? Father, could you give it? I'm a dead woman."
She smote her bosom, stumbling backward upon Rhoda's arm.