KASSY EVIDENTLY HAD SOMETHING ON HER MIND.
Meanwhile, Kassy continued to toast bread. A formidable pile of browned slices already lay on the plate, and she was preparing, in absent-minded fashion, to attack another slice, when suddenly the long toasting-fork hung aimlessly from one hand, while the other began fumbling in her pocket. Finally, in a cautious, troubled way, she handed the young lady a letter.
"I—I should have given it to you before, Miss," she faltered, "but kept it because I thought—that—perhaps—I—"
But Dorry already had torn open the envelope, and was reading the contents.
Kassy, watching her, was frightened at seeing the poor girl's face flush painfully, then turn deadly pale.
"Not bad news, is it, Miss? Oh, Miss Dorry, maybe I've done wrong in handing it to you; but a gentleman gave me half a dollar, day before yesterday, Miss, to put it secretly into your hands, and he said it was something you'd rejoice to know about."
Dorry, now sitting up on the bed, hardly heard her. With trembling hands, she held the opened letter, and motioned toward the door.
"Go, call Mr. Reed! No, no—stay here—Oh, what shall I do? What ought I to do?" she thought to herself, and then added aloud, with decision: "Yes, go ask Mr. Reed to please come up. You need not return."
Hastily springing to the floor, Dorry thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, put on a long white woollen wrapper that made her look like a grown woman, and stood with the letter in her hand as her uncle entered.
She remained motionless as a statue while he hastily read it, her white face in strange contrast to the angry hue that overspread Mr. Reed's countenance.