Valancy took his letter from her bag and handed it to him.
“Miss Valancy Stirling,” he read. “Yes—yes. Of course I wrote you—on the train—that night. But I told you there was nothing serious——”
“Read your letter,” insisted Valancy.
Dr. Trent took it out—unfolded it—glanced over it. A dismayed look came into his face. He jumped to his feet and strode agitatedly about the room.
“Good heavens! This is the letter I meant for old Miss Jane Sterling. From Port Lawrence. She was here that day, too. I sent you the wrong letter. What unpardonable carelessness! But I was beside myself that night. My God, and you believed that—you believed—but you didn’t—you went to another doctor——”
Valancy stood up, turned round, looked foolishly about her and sat down again.
“I believed it,” she said faintly. “I didn’t go to any other doctor. I—I—it would take too long to explain. But I believed I was going to die soon.”
Dr. Trent halted before her.
“I can never forgive myself. What a year you must have had! But you don’t look—I can’t understand!”
“Never mind,” said Valancy dully. “And so there’s nothing the matter with my heart?”