I
wonder--good heavens, Horace, how one wonders at such things!--I
wonder what Magdalen had done that she should be left to the
mercy of two such men as those."
"Well, it is no fault of Madelon's, at any rate," Horace
began; and then stopped, as the door opened, and Madelon came
in. In her hand she carried a queer little bundle of
treasures, that she had brought away with her from the
convent--the old German's letter, the two that Horace had sent
her, and one or two other things, all tied together with a
silk thread.
"This is the letter," she said, selecting one from the packet,
and giving it to Mrs. Treherne. It was the one she had read in
the evening twilight in her convent cell last May. "I am
afraid there is no name on it, for there is no beginning nor
ending. I think it must have been burnt."
"Why, that is your writing, Aunt Barbara!" said Graham, who
had come forward to inspect these relics.
"Yes, it is mine," said Mrs. Treherne. "It was written by me
many years ago."
She glanced at the letter as she spoke, then crushed it up
quickly in her hand, and with a sudden flush on her pale cheek
turned to Madelon.
Pages:
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472