'There is a letter for you, miss, on the tray,' she said as she left the room; 'it came by the afternoon post.'
Without answering, Alice continued to pour out the tea, but when she handed Cecilia her cup, she said, surprised at the dull, sullen stare fixed upon her:
'What is the matter? Why do you look at me like that?'
'That letter, I am sure, is from Harding; it is a man's handwriting.'
She had been expecting that letter for days.
'Oh! give it me,' she said impulsively.
'There it is; I wouldn't touch it. I knew you liked that man; but I didn't expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; it isn't worthy of you. You might have left such things to May Gould.'
'Cecilia, you have no right to speak to me in that way; you are presuming too much on our friendship.'
'Oh, yes, yes; but before you met him I could not presume too much upon our friendship.'
'If you want to know why I wrote to Mr. Harding, I'll tell you.'