“You do?” exclaimed Augusta, with flashing eyes.
“Yes, I'm certain it is Fanny Dawson's writing.”
“So it is,” said Augusta, looking at the paper as if her eyes could have burnt it; “to be sure—he was there before he came here.”
“Only for two days,” said Charlotte, trying to slake the flame she had raised.
“But I've heard that girl always makes conquests at first sight,” returned Augusta, half crying; “and what do I see here? some words in pencil.”
The words were so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but Augusta deciphered them; they were written on the margin, beside a circumflex which embraced the last four lines of the second verse, so that it stood thus:—
Dearest, I will.
Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That all must love thee when thou'rt near,
But one will ne'er forget thee!
“Will you, indeed?” said Augusta, crushing the paper in her hand, and biting it; “but I must not destroy it—I must keep it to prove his treachery to his face.” She threw herself on the sofa as she spoke, and gave vent to an outpour of spiteful tears.