It was getting late, and
he left the street just as I saw him. I followed, waiting until we got
to a private place before I would speak to him, however, as I knew he
would be mortified to be taken for the friend of a Jack-tar, in such a
scene.
Rupert entered a door, and then reappeared with a letter in his
hand. He, too, had gone to the post-office, and I no longer hesitated
about joining him.
"Is it from Clawbonny?" I asked, eagerly. "If so, from Lucy,
doubtless?"
"From Clawbonny--but from Grace," he answered, with a slight change of
colour. "I desired the poor girl to let me know how things passed off,
after we left them; and as for Lucy, her pot-hooks are so much out of
the way, I never want to see them."
I felt hurt, offended, that my sister should write to any youngster
but myself. It is true, the letter was to a bosom friend, a
co-adventurer, one almost a child of the same family; and I had come
to the office expecting to get a letter from Rupert's sister, who had
promised, while weeping on the wharf, to do exactly the same thing for
me; but there _is_ a difference between one's sister writing to
another young man, and another young man's sister writing to
oneself. I cannot even now explain it; but that there _is_ a
difference I am sure. Without asking to see a line that Grace had
written, I went into the office, and returned in a minute or two, with
an air of injured dignity, holding Lucy's epistle in my hand.
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