'D'ye see that, Mum?'
Nelly nodded.
'I'se juist gotten it from t' Post Office. They woant gie ye noothin'
till it's forced oot on 'em. But I goa regular, an to-day owd
Jacob—'at's him as keps t' Post Office—handed it ower. It's from
Donald, sure enoof.'
He held it up triumphantly. Nelly's heart leapt—and sank. How often in the first months of her grief had she seen—in visions—that blessed symbolic letter held up by some ministering hand!—only to fall from the ecstasy of the dream into blacker depths of pain.
'Oh, Mr. Backhouse, I'm so glad!' was all she could find to say. But her sweet trembling face spoke for her. After a pause, she added—'Does he write with his own hand?'
'You mun see for yorsel'.' He held it out to her. She looked at it mystified.
'But it's not opened!'
'I hadna juist me spectacles,' said Father Time, cautiously. 'Mebbee yo'll read it to me.'
'But it's to his mother!' cried Nelly. 'I can't open your wife's letter!'
'You needn't trooble aboot that. You read it, Mum. There'll be noothin' in it.'