"She rose quickly and looked out of the window. 'Don't speak of him. Let us forget him,' she pleaded, in a low tone.
"But Robert Evans seemed to take a delight in the--well, the goodness of Providence. 'If he had come to see you only once, when you were in trouble,' he went on, as if he were summing up the case in his own mind, and she were but a stick or a stone, 'we could have forgiven him, and I would have said you were right. Or even if he had written, eh?'
"'Oh, yes, yes!' sobbed the girl, her tears raining down her averted face. 'Don't torture me! You were right and I was wrong--all wrong!'
"'Well, yes, yes! Just so. But come here, my girl,' said the old man. 'Come!' he repeated imperiously, as, surprised in the midst of her grief, she wavered and hesitated, 'sit here,' and he pointed to the settle opposite to him. 'Now, suppose I were to tell you he had written, and that the letter had been--mislaid, shall we say? and come somehow to my hands? Now, don't get excited, girl!'
"'Oh!' cried Peggy, her hands fallen, her lips parted, her eyes wide and frightened, her whole form rigid with questioning.
"'Just suppose that, my dear,' continued Robert, 'and that the letter were now before us--would you abide by its contents? Remember, he must have much to explain. Would you let me decide whether his explanation were satisfactory or not?"
"She was trembling with expectation, hope. But she tried to think of the matter calmly, to remember her lover's hurried flight, the lack of word or message for her, her own misery. She nodded silently, and held out her hand.
"He drew a letter from his pocket. 'You will let me see it?' he said suspiciously.
"'Oh, yes!' she cried, and fled with it to the window. He watched her while she tore it open and read first one page and then another--there were but two, it was very short--watched her while she thrust it from her and looked at it as a whole, then drew it to her and kissed it again and again.
"'Wait a bit! wait a bit!' cried he testily. 'Now, let me see it.'