Mrs. Walcott drew two letters from beneath her pillow and passed them to her husband. "Read them aloud," said she; "I half-read them."
Mr. Walcott drew from one of the envelopes a single sheet of blue thin paper covered with small precise characters traced in the blackest of ink, with the bluntest of quills. As he moved it a gritty shower fell, showing the writer to be of the old school which prefers sand to blotting paper.
"My Dear Nephew," Mr. Walcott began, "It gives me great pain to learn that your dear wife remains ill. Now, I have a proposition to make; send Gay up here for a fortnight. His presence will be inexpressibly grateful to me, and his absence may be a relief to you at this time. Wire me your decision. My compliments to Elinor, and believe me to be,
"Yours truly,
"Harold S. Haines."
"P. S. You may think it singular that I have not included May in my invitation, but, candidly, a woman child under my roof would be sufficient excuse for me to leave it altogether, so I trust you will understand and pardon my omission. Tell Elinor that Sarah will take the best of care of the young rascal.
"H. S. H."
"Cedarville, N. Y. Aug. 6, 19——."
"A characteristic postscript," laughed Mr. Walcott. "Uncle Harold's antipathy to 'a petticoat', as he is fond of calling one of your sex, dear, seems to increase."
"His antipathy is quite out of proportion to our little daughter's half-yard petticoat," responded the Mistress, smiling faintly. "But go on, please, with Auntie's letter."
The second letter was quite unlike the first; it was penned in the most delicate handwriting, on fine white paper, ornamented with a silver crest, and as Mr. Walcott unfolded it a faint odor of that old-fashioned scent, lavender, was shed on the air. "A gentlewoman's letter," one would have said at once.