"Oh, Francis!" she exclaimed, a hectic colour flushing her face, "what have you come today for—now? Is it to bring me ill news?"
"Why do you imagine that?" he asked, rather struck with her words—and her looks. "Can't a business man come out to pay a morning visit, Mary, without bringing ill news with him? My wife and the baby are going on well, if you are thinking of them."
He spoke in a half-jesting tone, making light of it at first. It was not usual with him to leave the City at this early hour. Mary glanced at the open letter on the table. She wore a cool muslin dress of a pinkish colour, and was looking altogether fresh and fair and pure—but sad.
"How is mamma?" he asked.
"Not at all well; she is keeping her room today," said Mary. Mr. Grubb, standing so near, could not fail to see that the letter was written to Robert Dalrymple. The reader may like to see its contents.
"My dear Robert,
"Considering that you and I ceased to correspond some years ago, you will be surprised at my writing to you. I have no doubt all proper-minded old ladies, including my mother, would shake their heads at me. Will you just drop me one line in answer, to say how you are, and how the world is using you, and please let it be by return of post. I have a reason for asking this. Pardon the trouble; and believe me ever affectionately yours,
"Mary Isabel Lynn."
"Have you brought me ill news, Francis?" she repeated. "About Robert Dalrymple?"
Her brother looked at her. "Again I ask you, Mary, why you should put the question?"