“Brother George!” (in eager delight, from below.)
Miss Jane had not come to this knowledge because of having read the letter, for it still lay on the table unopened, but because she could not read it at all! One of Captain Dunning’s peculiarities was that he wrote an execrably bad and illegible hand. His English was good, his spelling pretty fair, considering the absurd nature of the orthography of his native tongue, and his sense was excellent, but the whole was usually shrouded in hieroglyphical mystery. Miss Jane could only read the opening “My dearest Sisters,” and the concluding “George Dunning,” nothing more. But Miss Martha could, by the exercise of some rare power, spell out her brother’s hand, though not without much difficulty.
“I’m coming,” shouted Miss Martha.
“Be quick!” screamed Miss Jane.
In a few seconds Miss Martha entered the room with her cap and collar, though faultlessly clean and stiff, put on very much awry.
“Give it me! Where is it?”
Miss Jane pointed to the letter, still remaining transfixed to the spot where her eye had first met it, as if it were some dangerous animal which would bite if she touched it.
Miss Martha snatched it up, tore it open, and flopped down on the sofa. Miss Jane snatched up an imaginary letter, tore it open (in imagination), and flopping down beside her sister, looked over her shoulder, apparently to make believe to herself that she read it along with her. Thus they read and commented on the captain’s letter in concert.
“‘Table Bay’—dear me! what a funny bay that must be—‘My dearest Sisters’—the darling fellow, he always begins that way, don’t he, Jane dear?”
“Bless him! he does, Martha dear.”