So the doctor opens his little bag, and takes out a square sealed packet first; then two or three letters tied together; the poor soul looking all the while as if he longed to prevent us from touching them. Well, the doctor said there was no occasion to open the packet, for the direction was the same on all the letters, and the name corresponded with his initials marked on his linen.
“I’m next to certain this is where he lives, or did live; so this is where I’ll write,” says the doctor.
“Shall my wife take the letter, Sir?” says I. “She’s in London with our girl, Susan; and, if his friends should be gone away from where you are writing to, she may be able to trace them.”
“Quite right, Penhale!” says he; “we’ll do that. Write to your wife, and put my letter inside yours.”
I did as he told me, at once; and his letter is inside this, with the direction of the house and the street.
Now, Mary, dear, go at once, and see what you can find out. The direction on the doctor’s letter may be his home; and if it isn’t, there may be people there who can tell you where it is. So go at once, and let us know directly what luck you have had, for there is no time to be lost; and if you saw the young gentleman, you would pity him as much as we do.
This has got to be such a long letter, that I have no room left to write any more. God bless you, Mary, and God bless my darling Susan! Give her a kiss for father’s sake, and believe me, Your loving husband,
WILLIAM PENHALE.
LETTER II. FROM MARY PENHALE TO HER HUSBAND DEAREST WILLIAM,