"I think it's gush," said Fenella. "Is there much more?"
"Oh! fie, dear. Listen!"
"Dear Cousin, we are to come to town for the autumn. May I call upon you—see you often—make amends for all the wasted years that might have made us friends? You are our kin, and, in trouble, blood calls to blood. We will return to Freres Lulford for Christmas, and we want you to spend it with us, among your own people. It will be a sad and quiet one for all, but by then I trust you will have grown so near to us that we need not grudge you a share in our grief. Write me when you get this. The earlier your answer reaches me the easier I shall forgive myself for what, by one cold word, you can turn to the deepest humiliation I have ever suffered. Think me impulsive, think me indiscreet, think me even impertinent; but, believe me, oh! so ready to write myself
"Your loving cousin,
"Leslie Barbour."
Mrs. Barbour wiped her spectacles. They were so dim that she did not notice her daughter's vacant gaze.
"Mother, are people often taken ill so suddenly?"
"My dear, your cousin says it was a long illness."
Fenella gave the low moan of the misunderstood. "Mother! I don't mean—that. I mean Paul."
The woman could not check a movement of almost passionate impatience.
"Mr. Ingram? I don't believe he's ill at all. Men who write are always up or down. They're worse than women. It's the unhealthy life they lead."