"Yes, I kept it. It was marked strictly confidential—I hate that—" She smiled as he added, "It seems to imply the possibility of indiscretion on my part."
"Oh, James! Oh, you dear man!" and she laughed outright, liking to tease where she deeply loved, knowing him through and through, as he never could know her. Then she saw that he was not in the mood for jesting with an edge to it; nor was she. "At all events, you did not let me see that letter—now I am to see it."
"Yes, you are to see it. You might at any time have seen it."
"Yes, read it to me."
"When our good Bishop sent Mark Rivers here to us, he wrote me this letter—"
"Well, go on."
"MY DEAR SIR: I send you the one of my young clergy with whom I am the most reluctant to part. You will soon learn why, and learning will be thankful. But to make clear to you why I urge him—in fact, order him to go—requires a word of explanation. He is now only twenty-six years of age but looks older. He married young and not wisely a woman who lived a childlike dissatisfied life, and died after two years. One of his brothers died an epileptic; the other, a promising lawyer, became insane and killed himself. This so affected their widowed mother that she fell into a speechless melancholy and has ever since been in the care of nurses in a farmer's family—a hopeless case. I became of late alarmed at his increasing depression and evident failure in bodily strength. He was advised to take a small country parish, and so I send him to you and my friend, Mrs. Penhallow, sure that he will give as much as he gets. I need not say more. He is well worth saving—one of God's best—with too exacting a conscience—learned, eloquent and earnest, and to end, a gentleman."
"There is a lot more about Indian missions, which I think are hopeless, but I sent him a cheque, of course."
"I supposed, James, that his depression was owing to his want of vigorous health. Now I see, but how very sorrowful it is! What else is there? I did not mean to listen, but something was said about his mother."
"Yes. He has spent with her a large part of every August—he called it his holiday. My God, Ann! Poor fellow! This August she died. It must be a relief."