He made a movement, then fell back.
'Read it, please,' he said, hoarsely, refusing it. 'There's something wrong with my eyes.'
And he held his hands pressed to them, while she—little reluctantly, wistfully—opened and read:
* * * * *
MY DEAR JOHN,—I have Phoebe safe. She can't write. But she sends you this—as her sign. It's been with her all through. She knows she's been a sinful wife. But there, it's no use writing. Besides, it makes me cry. But come!—come soon! Your child is an angel. You'll forget and forgive when you see her.
[Illustration: 'Be my messenger']
I brought Phoebe here last week. Do you see the address?—it's the old cottage! I took it with a friend—three years ago. It seemed the right place for your poor wife—till she could make up her mind how and when to let you know.
As to how I came to know—we'll tell you all that.
Carrie knows nothing yet. I keep thinking of the first look in her eyes! Come soon!
Ever your affectionate old friend,