“No, no, do not touch me, mother! I am well, very well;” he said hoarsely.
“No, dearest child, you are very ill. I will ring for assistance.”
“No—give me a pen—ink—paper too! I would write.”
“The Doctors have forbidden it.”
“But one—one line, dear mother!”
Mrs. Pierpoint looked at him a moment with hesitation and then silently obeyed. Not a muscle of Leslie’s face moved, but it was pale, very pale, as he took the pen in his fingers. His hand was steady while he wrote the following brief reply:—
“Mr. Leslie Pierpoint’s compliments to Miss Clayton—he assures her it is far, far from his wish, to place an obstacle in the way of her happiness.
“Thursday morning,
“No. 27— South Sixth St.”
He directed and despatched it without a word or look of emotion; and when the servant had left the room he calmly turned to his surprised mother, whose looks were fixed upon him full of anxious inquiry, smiled faintly upon her and said, at the same time offering her Clara’s crushed letter,