But Dr. Davenal did not rest so easily satisfied. He opened the door and called down the passage in an imperative voice.
"Neal! Are there no letters?"
Neal came gliding into the room from his pantry, two letters in his hand.
"Why did you not bring them in at once?" somewhat sternly asked the doctor as he took them, certain past suspicions regarding Neal and such missives arising forcibly to his mind.
"I was looking for my waiter, sir: I have mislaid it somewhere. Oh, I left it here, I see."
The silver waiter was on a side-table; not at all where it ought to be; as if it had been put down heedlessly and forgotten. Neal caught it up and retired. It might have been as he said--that the delay was caused by looking for it, and by that only; and Dr. Davenal, more inclined to be charitable than suspicious, thought no more of the matter.
In the keen disappointment which had come over him, he nearly lost sight of other things. Neither of the two letters was from his son; and he had so fully expected to hear from him by the present mail.
Sara's heart was beating. "Are they not from Edward, papa?"
The doctor shook his head as he laid the letters down. "They are both from Dick, I expect His holiday letters." The two letters were respectively addressed to Miss Davenal, and Miss Sara Davenal. The address to Miss Davenal bore evident marks of care in the writing; it was a clear, regular hand, though easily recognisable as a schoolboy's. The address to Sara was a scrawl scarcely legible. Upon opening the letter, hers, Sara found it beautifully written. Until she came to its close she had no suspicion but that it was really written to herself; she supposed it to be a sort of general holiday letter.
"My dear and respected Aunt and Relatives--