"Yours, with love,
"Richard Dewey."
The writing was hurried—indeed, it was hardly more than a scrawl.
"He must be very weak," thought Florence, her heart swelling with painful emotions.—"My good friend," she said to the landlady, "Richard is sick and poor. He asks me to come to him. I must go."
"But can you trust that man? Is the letter genuine?" asked Mrs. Armstrong, suspiciously.
"I am sure it is genuine. It is written as Richard would write."
"But don't be in haste, Miss Douglas—Florence. Make some inquiries, and find out whether this news can be depended upon."
"Would you have me hesitate when Richard needs me?" asked Florence, reproachfully. "No, Mrs. Armstrong, I must go, and at once. I have waited so long to see him!"
"He will be very glad to see you, miss," said Jones respectfully. "He has been talking about you constant."
"Were Ben and Mr. Bradley with him? Why didn't one of them come?"