Clayton found another letter in the rural delivery
box. She clutched it nervously, peered at the writing with her dim old
eyes, and hurried into the house for her glasses.
Yes, it was from Jehiel.
She drew a long breath. Her eager thumb was almost under the flap of the
envelope when she hesitated, eyed the letter uncertainly, and thrust it
into the pocket of her calico gown. All day it lay there, save at times--
which, indeed, were of frequent occurrence--when she took it from its
hiding-place, pressed it to her cheek, or gloried in every curve of the
boldly written address.
At night, after the lamp was lighted, she said to her husband in tones
so low he could scarcely hear:
"Thaddeus, I--I had a letter from Jehiel to-day."
"You did--and never told me? Why, Harriet, what--" He paused helplessly.
"I--I haven't read it, Thaddeus," she stammered. "I couldn't bear to,
someway. I don't know why, but I couldn't. You read it!" She held out
the letter with shaking hands.
He took it, giving her a sharp glance from anxious eyes. As he began to
read aloud she checked him.
"No; ter yerself, Thaddeus--ter yerself! Then--tell me."
As he read she watched his face. The light died from her eyes and her
chin quivered as she saw the stern lines deepen around his mouth.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165