“Is that all you have to say to me then—have you brought me here only to talk to me in the old strain?”
“I have—I had a great many things to say to you, but was in no hurry to say them; and since you have come in this very uncomfortable frame of mind I think it best to hold my peace. My principal object in writing was to show you that I did not wish to be unfriendly.”
He got up from his chair, looking deeply disappointed, even angry, and moved restlessly about for a minute or two. Near the door he paused as if in doubt whether to go away at once without more words or not. Finally he returned and sat down again. “Mary,” he said, “you have not treated me well; but I am now here in answer to your letter. Perhaps I was mistaken in its meaning, but I have no wish to make our quarrel worse than it is. Let me hear what you have to say to me; and if you require my advice or assistance, you shall certainly have it. If I cannot feel towards you as I did in the good old times, I shall, at any rate, not forget that you are my sister.”
“That's a good old sensible boy,” she returned, smiling. “But, Tom, before we begin talking I should like you to read this letter, which I was reading when you came in so suddenly. Probably you noticed that I took what you said just now very meekly; well, that was the effect of reading this letter, it is written in such a gentle soothing spirit. If you will read it it might have the same quieting effect on your nerves as it did on mine.”
He took the letter without a smile, glanced at a sentence here and there, and looked at the name at the end. “Pooh!” he exclaimed, “do you really wish me to wade through eight closely-written pages of this sort of stuff—the outpourings of a sentimental young lady? I see nothing in it except the very eccentric handwriting, and the fact that this Frances Eden—girl or woman—doesn't put the gist of the matter into a postscript.”
“You needn't sneer. And you won't read it? Frances Eden is Fan.”
“Fan—your Fan! Fan Affleck! Is she married then?”
“No, only changed her name to Eden—it was her father's name. Give me the letter back.”
“Not till I have read it,” he calmly returned. “Mary,” he said at last, looking up, “this letter more than justifies what I have said to you dozens of times. No sweeter spirit ever existed.”
“All that about the outpourings of a sentimental girl or woman?”