He turned and went out of the room into the hallway and then to the veranda, where I heard his firm and measured step pacing back and forth. The letter was not a very long one, but there was something in it—a vague undertone of loneliness, a muffled cry for sympathy, which, as I knew all the facts of the case, almost took my breath away.
The letter was dated “Boston, September 8th, 1878,” and was as follows:
“Colonel Blasengame—Two days ago the home paper came to me bringing the news of the great loss which has come to your household, and to me. I feel most keenly that a letter from me is an unwarranted intrusion, but I must speak out my thoughts to someone. Miss Sallie was almost the only friend I had when she and I were children together—almost the only person that I ever cared for. I loved her while she lived, and I shall cherish her memory to the day of my death.
“You do not know me, and you will not recognize the name signed to this. It is better, far better that this should be so. It is enough for you to know that a stranger in a strange land will lie awake many and many a long night, weeping for the dear young lady who is dead.
“Mary Ellen Tatum.”
What has become of Mary Ellen? the reader may ask. I have asked the same question hundreds of times and received no reply to it. So far as we provincials are concerned, she has disappeared utterly from the face of the earth.