“I remember this,” she said. “Norman was so angry he threw it down upon the floor. When we looked for it we thought you had cut it up, there were so many bits of paper on the floor.”
“I think I cut the envelope into paper dolls,” said Thea.
“I wish it had been the letter,” sighed the old lady.
“It was true, then? My husband’s first wife was wicked enough to doubt her husband’s honor,” Thea cried, vehemently.
“She was unreasonably jealous, dear. Judge her as lightly as you can. She is not here to defend herself,” the old lady said, solemnly; then added: “Let me destroy the letter, Sweetheart. I should not like for my son to see it again, or even to know of your reading it.”
Thea paused in her restless walk, and dashing the tears from her eyes, cried, pleadingly:
“Only tell me this: was that the reason why I was sent away from Verelands in my childhood to be reared by strangers?”
“Yes, that was the reason,” reluctantly. “Norman feared that his wife’s malice might cast a blot on your future if we kept you. You are not angry with him, dear?”
“It is the only grudge I ever had against my husband, and now that I understand, I love him more devotedly than ever.”
“That is right. He is worthy of it all, dear. He worships you and your child, Thea.”