readdressed to The High Farm, Thraile. The envelope was crushed and dirty, and bore the foreign service stamp. She carried it to the room where Connie lay upon her bed, reading a novel.
"Letters?" she asked sleepily.
"One—forwarded from Marshington. That's all." Muriel retreated to her own room, sick and weary with defeat. She had done nothing, nothing. She had helped neither Connie nor herself. She felt that she hated William Todd.
XXXI
Connie did not come downstairs at tea-time.
"She'll be tidying herself after lying down," said Muriel.
"She'll be crying over a letter from an old sweetheart," laughed Dolly.
Matthew winked at his brother. "There, Ben, lad, off ye go and see what's up wi' your wife. You'll have t'keep an eye on her letters now. Connie always was one for the lads. No followers!"
"Shame on you, Mat. Give over now," soothed Mrs. Meggie, pouring out the tea from a great brown pot. "You'll be bringing home a wife yourself one of these days, and then you'll laugh with the other side of your face. Well, Muriel, since you're the greatest stranger, bacon, cake or ham?"
Muriel gazed at the characteristic profusion. She was thinking of William Todd and the terrifying strangeness of the front parlour.