Accordingly Bedouin was turned toward the village, and in an inconceivably short space of time she stood before the door of the post-office.
"Give me Mr. Harrington's mail, please," Edith said to the clerk who came out to meet her; "and—and Mr. St. Claire's too, I'm going up there, and can take it as well as not."
The clerk withdrew, and soon returned with papers for Richard, and a letter for Arthur. It was post-marked at Worcester, and Edith thought of Mr. Griswold, as she thrust it into her pocket, and started for Grassy Spring, where Arthur was anxiously awaiting her. Hastening out to meet her, he held her hand in his, while he led her up the walk, telling her by his manner, if by nothing else, how glad he was to see her.
"It has seemed an age since Tuesday," he said. "I only live on lesson-days. I wish it was lesson-day always."
"So do I," said Edith, impulsively, repenting her words the moment she met the peculiar glance of Arthur's eyes.
She was beginning to be afraid of him, and half wished Richard was there. Remembering his letter at last, she gave it to him, explaining how she came by it, and marvelling at the sudden whiteness of his face.
"I will wait till she is gone," he thought, as he recognized Dr. Griswold's writing, and knew well what it was about. "I won't let anything mar the bliss of the next two hours," and he laid it upon the table.
"Ain't you going to read it?" asked Edith, as earnestly as if she knew the contents of that letter would save her from much future pain. "Read it," she persisted, declaring, with pretty willfulness that she would not touch a pencil until he complied with her request.
"I suppose I must yield then," he said, withdrawing into the adjoining room, where he broke the seal and read—once—twice— three times—lingering longest over the sentences which we subjoin.
* * * "To-day, for the first time since you were here, our poor little girl spoke of you of her own accord, asking where you were and why you left her so long alone. I really think it would be better for you to take her home. She is generally quiet with you, and latterly she has a fancy that you are threatened with some danger, for she keeps whispering to herself, 'Keep Arthur from temptation. Keep him from temptation, and don't let any harm come to little MIGGIE.' Who is Miggie? I don't think I ever heard her name until within the last few days." * * *