But Birkenbog, who was in good humour at the way he had been done by his daughter, threw a handful of copper “bodles” across the table to Amelia.
“There’s for the messenger!” he said. And I could see that he looked at the letter when it came with some anxiety.
As I supposed, it was from Charlotte, and the thinnest and least bulky of her billets that had ever come up these stairs. I handed it across to him, where he sat newly glooming at me.
“Open it!” I said.
“Since when has Robert Anderson of Birkenbog taken to opening letters addressed to other men?”
“Never heed—not till this very minute, maybe. Open that one, at any rate!” And I ran my finger along the sealed edge.
This was Charlotte’s letter to me.
From our home at Ewebuchts, Tuesday.
“Dear Duncan,
“How can we ever make it up to you? We were married yesterday by Mr. Torrance, the minister at Quarrelwood, and came home here in time for the milking of the cows. My father has kindly given my Thomas five hundred on account of my marriage portion, but he does not know it yet. I left all well. Thomas joins in kind messages to all inquiring friends. He is looking over my shoulder now, as perhaps you may be already aware from the style of composition.