"Do you know that?" Kitty asked, and held it out for Mrs. Crozier to
see.
Two dark blue eyes stared confusedly at the letter--at her own
handwriting. Kitty turned it over. "You see it is closed as it was when
you sent it to him. He has never opened it. He does not know what is in
it."
"He has-kept it--five years--unopened," Mona said in broken phrases
scarce above a whisper.
"He has never opened it, as you see."
"Give--give it to me," the wife said, stepping forward to stay Kitty's
hand as she opened the lid of the desk to replace the letter.
"It's not your letter--no, you shall not," said Kitty firmly as she
jerked aside the hand laid upon her wrist, and threw one arm on the lid,
holding it down as Mrs. Crozier tried to keep it open. Then with a swift
action of the free hand she locked the desk and put the key in her
pocket.
"If you destroyed this letter he would never believe but that it was
worse than it is; and it is bad enough, Heaven knows, for any woman to
have written to her husband--or to any one else's husband. You thought
you were the centre of the world when you wrote that letter. Without a
penny, he would be a great man, with a great future; but you are only a
pretty little woman with a fortune, who has thought a great lot of
herself, and far too much of herself only, when she wrote that letter.
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