"Fanny, dear!" said Mr. Markland, grasping her hand tightly. As he did so, she leaned heavily against him, while her eyes ran eagerly over the table.
Two or three times she tried to speak, but was unable to articulate.
"What can I say to you, love?" Her father spoke in a low, sad, tender voice, that to her was prophetic of the worst.
"Is there a letter for me?" she asked, in a husky whisper.
"No, dear."
He felt her whole frame quiver as if shocked.
"You have heard from Mr. Lyon?" She asked this after the lapse of a few moments, raising herself up as she spoke, and assuming a calmness of exterior that was little in accord with the tumult within.
"Yes. I have three letters of different dates."
"And none for me?"
"None."