“Do you think,” demanded Harry Goward, outright, “that she will ever forgive me, REALLY forgive me?”
“That is for you to find out,” I answered, smiling comfortably; for I could not possibly have Harry think that any of us—even an unpopular elder sister—could be there to fling Peggy at the young man's head. “That is between you and Peggy.”
“When shall you get home with that letter?” demanded Harry.
“Ask my husband. At a guess, I should say tomorrow.”
“Perhaps I had better wait until she has read the letter,” mused the boy. “Don't you think so, Mrs. Price?”
“I don't think anything about it. I will not take any responsibility about it. I have got the letter officially addressed, and there my errand ends.”
“You see, I want to do the best thing,” urged Harry Goward. “And so much has happened since I wrote that letter—and when you come to think that she has never read it—”
“I will mail it to her,” I said, suddenly. “I will enclose it with a line and get it off by special delivery this noon.”
“It might not reach her,” suggested Harry, pessimistically. “Everything seems to go wrong in this affair.”
“Would you prefer to send it yourself?” I asked.