The rain held on steadily until far along in the afternoon. Reynolds did not come, and when Moreton saw the clouds breaking away in the west, and heard the swash of the shower slowly sinking into a desultory pattering on the cabin roof, he sat down at the Colonel's desk and wrote a short note as follows:
"MY DEAR REYNOLDS:
"If I am not mistaken, I have at last found you again. If I am mistaken you will pardon my blunder. If I were perfectly sure that you are my old friend whom I lost so easily and would give so much to see, I would not go from this house without having heard your voice and held your hand. I am so sure that you are the very Reynolds to whom I owe every thing and whose friendship is the warmest spot in my life, that I am nearly on the point of staying at a venture; but the rain seems over, and I have a very long walk and shall go at once. I am at the —— Hotel in Birmingham. Won't you come to see me at once? If you are my Reynolds you know how you will be received; if I have blundered and you are not the friend I have so long missed, you shall have the humble apologies of
"EDWARD MORETON."
When this hasty epistle was finished, Moreton addressed it and placed it on the table. A few minutes later the girl came into the room. Moreton rose.
"Will you be kind enough," he said to her, "to hand Colonel Reynolds this letter when he comes home?"
She looked sideways at him and blushed scarlet, but said nothing and did not move from where she had stopped beside the door. A bright strand of her hair had fallen forward across her shoulder and breast.
"I shall be greatly obliged," he continued, turning the envelope about on the table with his finger. "You will be doing me a great favor. Colonel Reynolds is a dear friend of mine."
Unconsciously he used a wheedling tone in speaking to her, as he would have done in trying to coax a little child.
She moved one hand nervously, and a pallor encroached upon the flush in her cheeks. Her sweet, strange eyes dilated with some sudden emotion. It may have been mere bashfulness and the embarrassment of ignorance and timidity. She appeared so helpless, so prettily forlorn, so innocent and sweet, and yet she seemed so vulgar, uncouth and hopelessly shallow, withal. Moreton, despite himself, felt the infection of her timidity and shyness and became silent. She stood for a time as if wavering between opposing impulses, then in a sudden and breathless way she said: