“We might consider it,” he replied reluctantly. Then he fell to thinking of a blue-eyed girl, of the letter,—that 347 puzzling letter she had sent him. When he could bear his thoughts no longer, he got up and walked away under the trees, and Molly allowed him to go. She watched him strolling slowly, and was happy. He had been so sweet, so kindly, almost thrilling to her of late. She would make him love her. It would be but a matter of a few weeks if she could get him away from Bellaire. Just at that moment Mrs. King’s bell rang, and she went into the house. When she came back, Theodore was sitting on the veranda reading a letter, with another one unopened on his knee. The sight of his white face brought an exclamation from her lips.
“Theodore!” she cried.
He reminded her she was standing by saying:
“Sit down!”
This she was glad to do, for her knees trembled. Her eyes caught the handwriting on the unopened letter, resting like a white menace on Theodore’s lap. She saw her own name upon it, but dared not, nor had she the strength, to ask for it.
At length, with a long breath, Theodore looked at her steadily.
“This letter is for you,” he said, picking up her own. “Open it and then—give it to me.”
Never had she heard such tones in his voice, nor had she ever been so thoroughly frightened. Mechanically she took the letter, tore open the flap, and read the contents:
“Dear Miss Merriweather: