"Whether he receives it or not," she answered saucily, "I shall have the pleasure of writing to him—that is all I want."
She covered four pages of note-paper, and insisted on posting them herself.
The next morning Mr. Keller was able, with my help and Mr. Engelman's, to get downstairs to the sitting-room. We were both with him, when Madame Fontaine came in.
"Well," he asked, "have you brought it with you?"
She handed to him a sealed envelope, and then turned to explain herself to me.
"The letter that you put on Mr. Keller's desk," she said pleasantly. "This time, David, I act as my own postman—at Mr. Keller's request."
In her place, I should certainly have torn it up. To keep it, on the bare chance of its proving to be of some use in the future, seemed to imply either an excessive hopefulness or an extraordinary foresight, on the widow's part. Without in the least comprehending my own state of mind, I felt that she had, in some mysterious way, disappointed me by keeping that letter. As a matter of course, I turned to leave the room, and Mr. Engelman (from a similar motive of delicacy) followed me to the door. Mr. Keller called us both back.
"Wait, if you please," he said, "until I have read it."
Madame Fontaine was looking out of the window. It was impossible for us to discover whether she approved of our remaining in the room or not.
Mr. Keller read the closely written pages with the steadiest attention. He signed to the widow to approach him, and took her hand when he had arrived at the last words.