There was no need for inquiry why. Miss Latimer was virtually retired as a governess; but her tiny income sorely needed a supplement. She secured this by reading aloud for two hours every morning to a blind lady, whose house was not far from her lodgings, though a long way from the Challoners’. The Christmas holidays, which had brought relatives to visit her blind patroness, had set her free for three days.
“It is terribly hard that the few holidays of your industrious life should be wasted as these have been,” remarked Lucy.
Miss Latimer laughed. She was a quaint little body, with a flashing of energy about her which imparted something youthful to her sixty years.
“As it was bound to happen at all, my dear,” she said, “I am glad it happened in my holidays, so that I have been free to be a little helpful. Make the most of me while you have me. What step are you going to take next?”
“My first step,” answered Lucy, a hard note sounding in her voice, “is to destroy the last pages of my letter to Charlie. I had not brought ‘Mrs. Morison’ into it till Christmas Eve, so I can let it stand as it is up to that date. I see that I ended my instalment of the 22nd by writing that ‘Miss Latimer, Mr. Somerset, and Tom Black are to spend Christmas with me, and we shall all talk about you and send you our best wishes.’ This just comes to the very end of a page, so I shall put in half a sheet without a date with just my last messages. I will leave Christmas as in the future, where it was when I wrote that. What a mockery it is to read what I wrote on Christmas Eve!” She covered it over hastily, tore the sheet into tiny fragments, and dropped them into the fire.
“Is this the first letter you are sending to your husband?” asked Miss Latimer, to give a turn to Lucy’s bitter thoughts.
“My first letter—yes,” Lucy answered, “because Captain Grant was not quite sure where the ship would touch. But to every port where she may call I have sent postcards just assuring him of our well-being. Then, if he can call for those, he goes on with an easy mind, and if he can’t, why, there is really nothing lost.”
“You have not heard from him yet?” inquired the old lady.
“No,” said Lucy, “not yet. Charlie said he should keep a letter always in progress, and despatch it home whenever that was possible. I begin to look for one every morning now.”
They sat in silence for a while, then Lucy said abruptly—