"May I see the letter, mother?"
"Certainly, Grit; I have no secrets from you."
Mrs. Morris—to call her by the name she preferred—took from the pocket of her dress a letter in a yellow envelope, which, however, was directed in a neat, clerky hand, for Mr. Brandon had been carefully prepared for mercantile life, and had once been a bookkeeper, and wrote a handsome, flowing hand.
"Here it is, Grit."
Grit opened the letter, and read as follows:
"'—— Prison, May 10.
"My Affectionate Wife: I have no doubt you will be overjoyed to hear that my long imprisonment is nearly over, and that on the fifteenth, probably, I shall be set free, and can leave these cursed walls behind me. Of course, I shall lose no time in seeking out my loving wife, who has not deigned for years to remember that she has a husband. You might at least have called now and then, to show some interest in me.'
"Why should you?" ejaculated Grit indignantly. "He has only illtreated you, spent your money, and made you unhappy."
"You think, then, I was right in staying away, Grit?" asked his mother.