For Ann, coming in with wood for the fire, lingered behind her in a way to try a saint. Her sighs filled the air, they were like a furnace; until Henrietta turned her head and asked impatiently if she wanted something.
“Nothing, miss, nothing,” the woman answered. But she gave the lie to her words by laying her finger on her lip and winking. At the same time she sought for something in an under-pocket.
Henrietta rose to her feet.
“Nothing!” she repeated. “Then what do you——”
“Nothing, miss,” Ann rejoined loudly. “I’m to make up the fire.” But she still sought and still made eyes, and at last, with an exaggeration of mystery, found what she wanted. She slipped a letter into Henrietta’s hand. “Not a word, miss,” she breathed, with a face of rapturous enjoyment. “Take it, miss! Lor’!” she continued in the same tone of subdued enthusiasm, “I’d die for you, let alone do this! Even missus should not wring it from me with wild horses!”
Henrietta hesitated.
“Who gave it you?” she whispered. “I don’t wish”—she drew back—“I don’t wish to receive anything unless I know who sends it.”
“You read it,” Ann answered in an ecstasy of benevolence. “It’s all right, trust me for that! Bless your heart, it comes from the right place. As you will see when you open it!” And with absurd precaution she tip-toed to the fire-place, took up her wood-basket, banged a log on the dogs, and went out.
Henrietta waited with the letter hidden in her hand until the door closed. Then she looked at the paper and grew pale, and was on the verge of tears. Alas! she knew the handwriting. She knew, whether there was a right place or not, that this came from the wrong.
“Shall I open it?” she asked herself. “Shall I open it?”