“Whom can it be from?” she exclaimed, adjusting her spectacles. “It is not from my brother; it bears only the English post mark. Give me my scissors, Mary.” And she deliberately cut it open, though not the less eager to know its contents.
Mary watched her as she read, holding the letter up to the light, and murmuring, “Astonishing!”
“Very strange!”
“I cannot understand it!”
“And yet not impossible!”
“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you the contents of this,” she said, after she had read it twice over; “it may agitate you, my dear Mary, and raise expectations only to be disappointed. It is from Mr Farrance, and a very singular story he gives me.”
These remarks could not fail to arouse Mary’s curiosity.
“Is it about Ned? Has he been found? Is he coming back?” she exclaimed, her hand trembling in an unusual manner as she was about to pour out a cup of tea for her aunt.
“No, he does not give us any news of Ned. The letter has reference to you. I ought not to wish that anything to your advantage should not happen, but yet I almost dread lest Mr Farrance’s expectations should be realised.”
“Oh, do tell me, aunt, what Mr Farrance says!” exclaimed Mary. “I will nerve myself for whatever it may be; but I cannot even guess.”