“I am leaving England, Nance, for a short time,” wrote her husband. “I cannot give you any information with regard to where I am going. In short, my darling must make up her mind to do without hearing from me for a few weeks. I know this is hard on you, Nance, as it also is on me. The fates are bitterly hard on us both, but we married, did we not, accepting the position, and we must now endeavour to make the best of things. Unexpectedly some day I shall be again at your side. Meanwhile, believe that I am well, very well; believe that I will take all possible care of myself, for your sweet sake; believe also, that all my heart is yours—my best thoughts are yours. Good-bye, my angel.
“Your loving
“Adrian.
“P.S.—Do not mention to anyone that I am out of England for a time. You can say, if questioned, that I am detained on business in town.”
“No, I won’t tell a lie,” said Nance to herself proudly.
She did not add any more. Even with her own anxious, beating heart, she refused to commune over the contents of her letter. A flush burned on either cheek, her eyes grew bright, with the brightness which often precedes tears, but no tears came to them. She read the brief letter over twice, then folded it up and slipped it into her pocket.
As she did this she noticed that Murray had come into the room, that he had observed her action, and that his bold eyes, so like her husband’s, were fixed on her face.
“Don’t look at me like that, Murray,” she said with a note in her voice which sounded like a sob.
For answer the boy sprang to her side.
“Cry if you want to, auntie,” he said. “I know you want to. That letter was from Uncle Adrian, was it not?”