They walked on, and she pretended to be absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful mountain scenery, while he ran over his letters.
"Let us cross the railroad and walk on the bridge over there," she said, at last.
It was a beautiful sunny day, very calm and mild for December. They loitered on the broad bridge that spanned the romantic river between the two towns, Alderson and North Alderson, and while she watched the lapsing river and the mountain peaks against the clear blue sky, he read to her bits of his letters from New York.
"Here's one that will interest you," he laughed, meaningly, and read:
"'Well, old fellow, there's nothing that I know in the way of interesting news just now, unless that a girl you used to be sweet on is going to be married to-morrow. It's little Daisy Odell, you know, of Newburgh. She's been visiting a married sister here, and caught a beau. He's a fireman named Harry Hawthorne, a big, handsome fellow, the hero of several fires. The marriage will take place at Mrs. Stansbury's, and I've an invitation to it.'"
He looked from the letter to her face, and saw that she was deadly pale and grief-stricken.
"Oh, will you let me read that for myself?" she gasped, as if she could scarcely believe him.
"Why, certainly," he answered, but as he was handing her the crumpled sheet, the wind caught it somehow, and fluttered it beyond reach over the rail and down into the river.
"Oh! oh! oh!" he cried, with pretended dismay, but his outstretched hand could not grasp it.
"It's gone; but no matter—the news must be true, for Charlie Butler wrote it, and he always tells the truth," he said, carelessly.