"N—o." Esther, who knew Aunt Amy's feeling about love letters, could not find it in her heart to disagree. "I think we may fairly call it treasure-trove. It's only a note anyway." Her eyes ran swiftly over the two short paragraphs upon the open sheet.
"Dearest wife:—
"At last I can call you 'wife' without fear. Our waiting is over. Brave girl! If it has been as long to you as to me, you have been brave indeed. But it is our day now. Even your mother cannot object any longer. I am coming for you to-morrow. Only one more day!
"Dear, I think that in my wild impatience I did you wrong. But love does not blame love. No wife shall ever be so loved as you. May God forget me if I forget what you have done for me…."
"What a strange letter!" Esther looked up wonderingly.
"Is that all, Esther?" Aunt Amy's face was vaguely disappointed. "The one I read was much longer than that."
"That is all that is written here, Auntie. But it is a beautiful letter. They had been separated, you see, and she had been brave and waited. One can imagine—"
The click of the garden gate interrupted her.
"Here's your mother," said Aunt Amy, in a flurried tone. "Don't let her—"
"Is that the mail, Esther?" Mrs. Coombe's high voice held a fretful intonation. Aunt Amy seized the letter and hid it in her dress. "She shan't see it," she whispered childishly.