Again Ishmael assented.  Again Archelaus went on without any fumbling after words, as though all his life he had known what he was going to say at this moment.  He lifted his hand and began fumbling at the neck of his nightshirt.  Ishmael guessed what he was wanting, for when he had been undressed they had found a little flat oilskin bag slung around his neck which they had left there.  Now he bent forward, and, loosening the shirt, lifted out the bag.  In obedience to a nod from Archelaus, he took out his knife and, cutting the dark, greasy string that looked as though it had rested there for years, slipped the bag from off it.  Then, still in obedience to Archelaus, he slit the oil-silk and a few discoloured letters fell out.  He gathered them up from off the coverlet and waited.

“Read,” said Archelaus.  Ishmael dived into a pocket for his spectacles, found them, adjusted them, and began to turn over the letters.  Archelaus pointed to one with his trembling old finger.  “That first,” he whispered; “take that one first.”  Then, as Ishmael settled himself to read, he added with a low chuckle:  “Knaw the writen’, do ’ee?”

It had seemed vaguely familiar to Ishmael, but no more, and not even now could he say whose it was.  It was very old-fashioned writing and very characterless, the hand which had in his youth been called “Italian,” and it seemed to him to have nothing distinctive about it.  “Never mind,” said Archelaus as he shook his head; “you’ll knaw fast enough.  Read.”

This is what Ishmael read by the evening light that flooded the room: 

“Dear Archelaus,” ran the letter, “I don’t know whatever I shall do.  I wish I was dead.  Why did you come back and trouble me?  There were plenty of women where you came from.  You have told me about them often enough.  I never wanted you to make love to me.  I never liked it, only I couldn’t help it.  And now there’s a baby coming and he hasn’t been near me for over two months.  He seems as though he didn’t want me any more, and I don’t know what to do, because now he’ll have to know....”

Ishmael read so far, and though he did not understand what he read, and it sent no rush of knowledge over his soul, yet a deadly sense of fear, of yet he knew not what, sent his heart pounding through his frame.  The letter fell to his knee and Archelaus, watching, said: 

“I told her to speak ‘ee soft and let her lil’ body lie against ’ee....”

Ishmael picked up the letter again, looked from the date—­the month of January, in 1868—­to the signature, “Phoebe Ruan,” before he let the letter drop again.  Still he said nothing, and after a minute Archelaus went on.

“Read the next,” he said.

The next was but a further plaint, signed with Phoebe’s name, in a rather more uneven hand.  Ishmael found himself remembering, as his eye met them again, her little tricks with the pen—­the wandering tails to her words, the elaborate capitals which gave a touch of individuality to the regular slanting lines.  He picked up the last letter.