The writing, though, irregular, as if a trembling hand had traced it, had a strangely familiar look as she glanced at it.
It had been written with a pencil, and was not very distinct. Bending closer, Brownie discovered the words, “repentant Meta.”
A thrill of intense pain ran through every nerve, and, without stopping to consider that she had no moral right to do so, she unfolded the paper—it was yellow and old, and only folded once—and began to read.
Scarce had her eye swept over the few words written within, when every vestige of color faded from her cheeks and lips, while her eyes burned with a fierce, vengeful light.
She had heard of that little note before.
How well she remembered the pain in that dear old face, the quivering of those sweet, pale lips, and the note of mortal anguish in the loved voice which had told her of this little message which had never accomplished its mission.
In her mind she went back nearly fifty years, and saw a beautiful young girl, lying pale and sick in a lofty room, a deep scar upon her fair temple, but a deeper pain looking forth from the sad eyes, as she watched eagerly for the sound of a footstep which never came.
Yes, it was the very note—that anguished, repentant cry, which Miss Mehetabel had sent from the depths of her soul to the man she had loved!
“Yes, come at once, if you can forgive your repentant
“Meta.”