Surely that was a morning of happenings, for scarcely had the Squire spoken than a servant entered the room bearing a letter. It came from the Vicar.
Josiah Lethbridge took the letter without a word and read it through with the same unmoved countenance. After he had done so he passed it to his wife.
"This is kind of Mr. Trelaske," she said. "He must be burdened by his own sorrow, yet he sends this letter to us. Of course he does not know all the truth."
I rose to go. I felt that I should be intruding if I stayed longer. I held out my hand to Mr. Lethbridge, who took it almost mechanically.
"It is very kind of you to call," he said. "And—and take care of yourself; you are not strong, you know."
When I reached the hall I found Isabella Lethbridge standing there.
"That letter from the Colonel is simply splendid," I said. "Of course your loss must be terrible, but you must be proud of your brother."
She made no reply, neither could I understand the look on her face. It was not so much sorrow I saw, as wonder and amazement.
"Funny family!" said the Squire to me, as we drove away. "Did you notice that the man never spoke a word?"
I nodded, and the Squire went on: