Amber apparently was too much agitated to speak, and at last sobbed out in the most incoherent fashion:
“Wait! Wait—till Cecil—comes! and I will—tell—you—my—miserable story!”
Then she subsided into her drenched handkerchief again until presently her betrothed came quickly into the room.
“Oh, Cecil, I’ve been waiting so long for you to come!” she sobbed, and he answered:
“But I’m not much behind time, Amber. I only ran down to the post-office before coming home to luncheon. And, by the way, Amber, I was told you had called for my mail and taken it away.”
He looked at her expectantly, and she faltered:
“I was on my way to Bonnycastle, and thought I would save you the trouble of calling for your mail. But, Cecil, there was only one letter, and as I held it in my hand—can you ever pardon my carelessness?—the breeze caught it from me, and whirled it into the river.”
She wished with a sudden uneasiness that she had indeed tossed Violet’s letter into the river, but she had kept it, with woman’s proverbial curiosity, to read at some future convenient time.
Cecil’s dark, handsome face was grave with disappointment, but he stifled his vexation, and said, courteously:
“It cannot be helped now, but I dare say it was of no importance—although I fancy I shall be curious all my days over the contents of that lost letter.”