“Then I’m going to your own mountain top with it. To think of having a letter from you, right here, at home! Why, I can hardly wait! I’m so thankful to you for it, and so thankful to God that you are getting well. That you will be soon; and then—why, then—we’ll go a-fishing!”
A spasm of pain crossed the sick man’s wasted features, and poor Angelique fled the place, forgetful of her own caution to “be still as still,” and with her own dark face convulsed with grief for the grief which the letter would bring to her idolized Margot.
But the girl had already gone away up the slope, faster and faster. Surely, a letter from nobody but her uncle, and at such a solemn time, must concern but one subject—her father. Now she would know all, and her happiness should have no limit.
But it was nightfall when she, at last, came down from the mountain, and though there were no signs of tears upon her face, neither was there any happiness in it.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.