But the house was sunk in darkness. She was the only creature stirring. And yet she yearned to have the thing over, irrevocable. Perhaps she might venture out herself with her latch-key. There was a letter-box at the street corner. She lit a candle and stole out on the landing, casting a monstrous shadow which frightened her. In her over-wrought mood it almost seemed an uncanny creature grinning at her. Her mother's death-bed rose suddenly before her; her mother's voice cried: "Ah, Florrie, do not fret. I will find thee a bridegroom." Was this the bridegroom—was this the only one she would ever know?
"Father! father!" she shrieked, with sudden terror.
A door was thrown open; a figure shambled forth in carpet slippers—a dear, homely, reassuring figure—holding the coloured handkerchief which had helped to banish him from the drawing-room. His face was smeared; his eyelids under the pushed-up horn spectacles were red: he, too, had kept vigil.
"What is it? What is it, little Schnapsie?"
"Nothing. I—I—I only wanted to ask you if you would be good enough to post this letter—to-night."
"Good enough? Why, I shall enjoy a breath of air."
He took the letter and essayed a roguish laugh as his eye caught the superscription.
"Ho! ho!" He pinched her cheek. "So we mustn't let a day pass without writing to him, eh?"
She quivered under this unforeseen misconception.
"No," she echoed, with added firmness, "we mustn't let a day pass."