“No, Mr. Yorke, I don’t care to see it,” she was beginning; but something in Leonard’s swift glance of surprise stung her woman’s pride, and she took the poem from his hand.
Slowly she read it, and as she read it over with the belief that it was written for Violet Arleigh—that the sweet, tender words were meant for another woman, a stern, cold look settled down upon Jessie’s face, and her heart grew hard as a stone toward dark-eyed Will. When she reached the lines:
“And I thought, ‘Love’s soul is not in fetters;
Neither space nor time keeps souls apart;
Since I can not, dare not, send my letters,
Through the silence I will send my heart,’”
she laid the poem abruptly down upon the table and turned away.
“Well,” queried Leonard, with a ring of impatience in his voice, “is it Will Venners’ work, Miss Glyndon? Do you identify the writing?”
Her heart was beating eighteen to the dozen, and she felt a strange, cold sensation creeping over her; but with a wonderful effort she controlled her agitation, and the voice which made answer did not even tremble as she replied:
“Yes, it is Will—Captain Venners’—handwriting, Mr. Yorke; I know it.”