letter with the London post mark, mamma,” said Eveline, “and not from Mark.”
“I hope Mark is well,” said Mrs. Fenner, taking the letter with some trepidation. “It is Mr. Echlin’s writing. What a long letter!”
As Mrs. Fenner’s eyes ran along the lines traced by the firm hand of her cousin, her colour rose, a smile broke on her lips, and as she laid down the letter the tears stood in her eyes.
“Nothing is wrong with Mark, mamma?” said Eveline, inquiringly.
“Nothing, dear; quite the contrary. But you had better read the letter; it concerns you quite as much as me.” And Mrs. Fenner held the letter to her daughter.
“Oh, mamma, how nice of him!” exclaimed Eveline, with sparkling eyes. “I knew he must love Mark. How could he help it? But to think of his wanting us to go and live in London with him and Mark—to make his house like home, he says! What will you do, mother? What will you do?”
“What do you say, Eveline? What do you wish?”
“I? Of course I like to do what you like.”
“It is very kind of Miles.”
“I should think it was. And he puts it so prettily; as if all the favour were on our side.”