At the end of two hours Earle went back to his charge, with a letter in his hand.
Tom had been much refreshed by his nice dinner, and had been asleep for an hour.
But he now lay with a troubled, anxious expression on his face, which Earle could not fail to notice, even though his lips relaxed into a faint smile of welcome at his entrance.
He went up to the couch where he was reclining, and said, as he handed him the letter:
“I would like, if you feel able, to have you direct this letter to your mother, and after that you can read it, if you like. I have thought best to write her something of your illness, knowing that she must be very anxious at not hearing from you for so long. I would gladly have done so before had you spoken of it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said, in a low voice, as, taking the envelope and the pen filled with ink that Earle had brought him, he directed the letter, in rather a trembling hand. Then he unfolded it and read the few simple words that were written within.
“Dear Madam,” it said, “your son has been quite sick during the past three months, and I write this that you may feel no further anxiety regarding him. He is improving daily, and will, we hope, soon be well. Should you feel able to come to him, you will come directly to Wycliffe, where you will be cordially received. Inclosed you will find a sum which your son would have sent you before now had he been able to write. Very truly,
Earle Wayne.”
A five-pound note had been inclosed within the letter, at the sight of which Tom Drake’s lips suddenly tightened into a firm line.
He read the letter through, and, when he had finished, it dropped from his fingers upon the counterpane, and lay there while he turned his face to the wall, and for some minutes did not speak.