“Don’t read it, Margaret. I have had many such in my time, denouncing me as a sceptic and an atheist, and consigning me to the lowest regions. They don’t hurt you much when you are used to them. Put your letter in the fire unread, and forget all about it.”
“But I have read it, grandfather; I could not help that, and I want you to read it, too.”
“I think it would be better not.”
“Please, because I wish it.”
The old man read it through twice, and then looked at Margaret, with a curious smile. “You need not mind this in the least,” he said. “I suppose you know who wrote it?”
“I have not the slightest idea.”
“No? It was Mrs. Hunter, John Dallington’s mother.”
“Mrs. Hunter! Oh! surely not? What can make you think that?”
“I do not think it; I am sure of it. There has been an attempt to disguise the writing, but it is certainly Mrs. Hunter’s. Now, my dear, never tell any one that you have had it as long as you live. Burn it, and forget all about it. That is the only thing to do.”
“Graf, you must be mistaken; it could not be Mrs. Hunter.”