“You will dou’tless be glad to hear that Polly is well, though she has not quite her usual bloom. Indeed, I am convinc’d that she has suffered greatly from your prolonged Absence, although, having a high Spirit, she does not readily betray her feelings.
“Believe me, my dear Sir,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. Fairbank.”
“Den, is it from Polly?” cried Roy, bursting into the room.
“Yes. And Molly is quite well, and sends you her love. Come, we must tell your mother that I have heard.”
“I’ve done your unpacking. Mademoiselle wouldn’t let me stay. She said I ought to leave you to read your letter in peace.”
“Rather hard upon you, eh?” suggested Ivor. “Come along!” and Roy, forgetting all else, sent a shout in advance to prepare his mother for what was coming.
They had to make the most of this letter. None could guess how long a time might pass before they would hear again. Every detail was eagerly dwelt upon, and on the whole Polly’s report was counted satisfactory. Naturally it awoke fresh memories, fresh regrets, fresh longings; yet Denham at least seemed the better for his “medicine.” The look of weight and strain was gone from his face next morning, and he appeared to be in much his usual spirits, when he proposed a walk with Roy to explore the neighbourhood. He and the Colonel had just returned from appel; all détenus and prisoners having at stated intervals to report themselves at the maison de ville.
“Will you have to sign your names every day?” Mrs. Baron asked, on hearing particulars.
“At present, no. Den and I and a few others are excused from doing so more often than once in five days. But the greater number have to show themselves every day—unless they can send a medical certificate, forbidding them to go out, on account of illness.”
“Remedy worse than disease,” murmured Ivor.