The door was thrown open, and the singer stood upon the threshold like a picture in a frame—a beautiful picture, too. Theresa Van Curter was a rare type of her style of beauty—the blonde. Her fair hair, lustrous and waving, was put back from a white forehead, and confined at the back with an antique comb; her dress was suited to the station in which she was placed, partaking something of the Indian character, and giving free play to her limbs, a broad hat, which she had been wearing in her stroll through the forest, was swung upon her arm, while her hand clasped a bouquet of wild flowers she had gathered. She started in some surprise at the appearance of Boston, and then, dropping the flowers and hat to the floor, sprung forward.
“Oh, sir, you here! Have you any news?”
She paused in some confusion.
“You needn’t go on,” said Boston, “I never keep a lady waiting. I have a letter for you.”
Theresa put out her hand quickly.
“It must be from him!”
“Yes, it’s from him. Your father tried hard to find it. He would give me both Jerusalem and Jericho if he knew I had it. You see I calculated on being searched, and hid the paper.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did. Have you got such a thing as a knife around here? Thank you, Katrine. What a famous little house-keeper you’ll make, having every thing so handy about you! Take hold of my old cap and help me.”
A few moments’ work about the lining of the old hat which the hawker had worn revealed a letter, which he took and handed to Theresa. She turned away to the window, and read it hastily. A shade passed over her fine face as she read.