He took the twist of paper and, unfolding it, puzzled over it for a time in silence. “It’s mighty hard to read; it’s written so funny; she’s left out a lot of words, and written some twice over, an’ all running down on the paper,” he hesitated.
“Read it, read it!” she cried. She was sitting bowed over, her elbows on her knees, her face hidden in her hands.
He read, picking the words out with difficulty.
“It commences, ‘Dear’—just that: she forgot to put the rest, I reckon. ‘Dear, I can’t stand no more. My niece, my baby—baby,’ (she’s got that twice over) ‘to see me to-day.’ (She’s left out something here) ‘trouble. She’s in awful trouble. Her husband’s left an’ gone with another woman. She’s all broke up by it. My baby she cried and cried.’”
He paused.
“Don’t leave out anything: read it all—all,” she breathed from behind her hands.
He went on again: “‘An’ now the law’s lookin’ for him. My poor little baby child! All I had. I can’t stand up against this trouble—disgrace. People talk, always peeking and spying at you, an’ talk. I ain’t got no more to live for now, an’ I don’t want to live—’”
He hesitated.
“All, Tim, all!” she cried out again.
“‘Don’t want to live if there’s bad people in the world like what took my baby’s husband. She was all I had to set my heart on. You understand. You been good—good to me.’ (She’s got ‘good’ written twice over, Julie.) ‘I take my pen in hand—these few lines. Don’t let any one be blamed. Nobody to blame but that woman. You been good to me. I thank you, an’ so no more at present from your poor old friend, Eliza Annie Fogg.’”