“And remain,
“Your obedient humble servant,
“Bolton.”
A strange letter, but the man himself was not ordinary, and so ’tis to be supposed his wife knew him, for she replied strangely also—
“Your Grace,
“Your letter lies before me and I have the honour to reply. ’Tis the last time you will see my living hand. I think you do right. I wish you happy. I thank you for many benefits—so great as there is nothing more I can ask but an occasional thought not wholly unkind. We cannot die when we would, else I think you had long ago been free and I also. I ask your forgiveness.
“Your obedient humble servant,
“G. Bolton.”
He read it thoughtfully, then carrying it to the fire dropped it in and stood until the last ash fluttered away.
“The poor woman,” he said.