“‘Yes, boss, dat am hit.’
“‘Very well, you may go now.’
“As soon as the little negro left the room I proceeded to open the letter and, lo and behold! here was another document exactly like the one that I had found on my table, except the handwriting, the last one being a very neat, fine hand, while the first one was written in a bold, uneven hand:
“‘Fly for your life—you are discovered. A large reward is offered for your capture. Delay is fatal.’
“This letter had no name signed to it, and no date—it was written on gilt-edged note-paper, and richly perfumed. My hands trembled so violently that I could scarcely hold the letter still enough to read it; and when I did manage to peruse it my vexation surpassed all previous bounds, and I fell back on the sofa and groaned in despair. I remained thus, buried deep in my melancholy reflections, until after midnight—then went to bed, but not to sleep. The old clock on the mantel was ticking regularly, and at every stroke of the pendulum it seemed to say: ‘Fly for your life! Fly for your life!’ It must have been near daylight when I fell into a troubled slumber, from which I was awakened by the breakfast bell at eight o’clock. My temples were throbbing—my eyes felt like balls of fire, while my blood was feverish. I plunged into a large tank of cold water in the bath-room, which served to cool the fever in my blood.
“Hastily arranging my toilet, I met my mother at the breakfast table with a cheerful smile, which cost me a considerable effort to keep up. She made many anxious inquiries about my health and the manner in which I had rested during the night, all of which I answered truthfully, as far as I could without increasing her anxiety. I took a cup of strong coffee, kissed my mother, and hurried to the drug-store, when a little boy came briskly in and handed me another letter, and darted out at the door before I had time to interrogate him as to who had sent it. I of course supposed it was another one of those detestable notes advising me to ‘fly for life,’ and being disgusted with documents of that sort, I moved toward the fire, intending to consign the letter to the flames unopened; but glancing at the superscription, I was delighted to discover that it was from Lottie. The contents of the note caused a thrill of delicious joy to dart through my heart. It was like a cold, bubbling spring gushing up in the middle of an African desert before a perishing traveler.
“DEAR EDWARD—This is to inform you that I am going to spend the day in my flower garden, for the purpose of superintending the transplanting of some of my flowers, and if it will not interfere with your professional duties, I should be delighted to have the benefit of your advice and assistance. Mother and Mrs. Dodson have very kindly consented to spend the day with Viola, which enables me to look after my flowers; they, you know, have been sadly neglected of late.
“‘LOTTIE.’
“When I arrived I found Lottie busily engaged in arranging a fresh bed where she was preparing to plant some tube-roses.
“‘I am so glad you have come, Edward!’ she exclaimed, as she came to meet me; ‘you may make up your mind to do a good day’s work here—just see how the weeds are choking my pretty jasmines yonder! and there are my geraniums all dying for lack of attention! I declare, it is too bad, and I must give Uncle Zack a good scolding for neglecting my flowers.’