When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful impression as of a buckle slipped, so coldly she returned the packet.
"You have read them?" said I; and I thought my voice sounded not wholly natural, for I was turning in my mind for what could ail her.
"Did you mean me to read all?" she asked.
I told her "Yes," with a drooping voice.
"The last of them as well?" said she.
I knew where we were now; yet I would not lie to her either. "I gave them all without after-thought," I said, "as I supposed that you would read them. I see no harm in any."
"I will be differently made," said she. "I thank God I am differently made. It was not a fit letter to be shown me. It was not fit to be written."
"I think you are speaking of your own friend, Barbara Grant?" said I.
"There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a fancied friend," said she, quoting my own expression.
"I think it is sometimes the friendship that was fancied!" I cried. "What kind of justice do you call this, to blame me for some words that a tomfool of a madcap lass has written down upon a piece of paper? You know yourself with what respect I have behaved--and would do always."