“But you say the writing is his?” asked the other voice.
“Yes, as near as I can tell. You know I have not seen much of it for the last six years. I will show it to you; you can judge better than I, as you have probably seen more of it.”
There was a rustling, as if some one was unfolding a letter, then a moment of quiet, and the strange voice again said:
“It certainly looks like his hand, though perhaps a little straggling, as if written in a hurry. But I cannot understand why he should do such a dishonorable thing. As you say, it is not in the least like him. I have always had the greatest respect for him, thinking him one of the most noble and manly young men I ever met with.”
“Did you have any idea of his having formed another attachment in this place?” asked Mr. Ellerton, with a deep sigh.
“No; and that is what puzzles me. But there is his own word for it in black and white; and can we doubt it? I am deeply disappointed—deeply!” and the unhappy father’s sigh was echoed from the breast of the other.
“It is very strange; for when he left home neither coaxing nor threats would move him an inch. He was thoroughly bewitched; and I did not think he was one that would change.”
“Did I understand you to say that this same young lady was present yesterday to witness his honors?”
“Yes; and I must say I as deeply regret the termination of this affair as I was opposed to it in the beginning.”
“May I ask the young lady’s name?”