“My dearest, sweet Lucy.”
“Hum—puppy! go on.”
“My dearest, sweet Lucy—To-morrow—to-morrow I leave for—for—” Lucy could proceed no further, but covered with blushes hid her face in her father’s bosom.
“Well, well Lu, don’t cry; I don’t want to hear any more of such silly stuff. There give me the letter, it will serve nicely to light my pipe,” said Mr. Leyton, twisting it in his fingers.
“Father, wont you let me have the letter—wont you, father?” pleaded Lucy.
“No, Lucy. Now go and get pen, ink, and paper; this must be answered.”
Quite pale and frightened, Lucy brought her little desk and placed it on the table.
“Are you ready?” said Mr. Leyton, “well then, begin, Mr. Edward—what’s his name—Bartine—”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are a base designing young man—”