"Let me see," said aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder, and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"
Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried the letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it with trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed to reel about.
There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that. She sat reading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and the sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she folded her hands together, and humbly thanked God for his loving kindness.
When she was sure her sister Maria had gone up stairs, she ran out to the kitchen, whispering,—
"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing.
"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.
Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears.
"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's really dreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy."
"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said aunt Louise: "do speak quick."
"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessed truth! Now hush! We must be so careful how we tell Maria!"