"Emmy, dear—I can tell you—and I—no, no, not now, not now; if he comes back—then—then; poor children! Oh, the sin of secresy!"
"But, dearest sir, do not be so sad; Charles has happy news, he says."
"Happy, child? Good Heaven! would it could be so!"
"Indeed, indeed, a week ago he was as miserable as any could be, and so was I; for he heard something terrible about me—I don't know what—but I feared I was a—Pariah! However, now he is all joy, and coming home again as soon as possible."
The general shook, his head mournfully, as physicians do when hope is gone; but still he looked perplexed and thoughtful.
"You will show me the letters, dear, I dare say: but I do not command you, Emmy; do as you like."
"Certainly, my own kindest guardian—all, all, and instantly."
And flying up to her room, she returned with as much closely-written manuscript as would have taken any but a lover's eye a full week to decipher. The general, not much given to literary matters, looked quite scared at such a prospect.
"Wait, Emmy; not all, not all; show me the last."
I dare say Emily will forgive me if I get it set up legibly in print. May I, dear?