He dived into his breast-pocket, became motionless for ten seconds, then woke up again and produced her letter.  He drew it clumsily from its envelope, and handed it to me silently.

“Why!” he cried, looking at me for the first time, “What’s come to your chin, Willie?”

“It’s nothing,” I said.  “It’s a bruise;” and I opened the letter.

It was written on greenish tinted fancy note-paper, and with all and more than Nettie’s usual triteness and inadequacy of expression.  Her handwriting bore no traces of emotion; it was round and upright and clear as though it had been done in a writing lesson.  Always her letters were like masks upon her image; they fell like curtains before the changing charm of her face; one altogether forgot the sound of her light clear voice, confronted by a perplexing stereotyped thing that had mysteriously got a hold upon one’s heart and pride.  How did that letter run?—­

“My dear mother,

“Do not be distressed at my going away.  I have gone somewhere safe, and with some one who cares for me very much.  I am sorry for your sakes, but it seems that it had to be.  Love is a very difficult thing, and takes hold of one in ways one does not expect.  Do not think I am ashamed about this, I glory in my love, and you must not trouble too much about me.  I am very, very happy (deeply underlined).

“Fondest love to Father and Puss.

“Your loving

“Nettie.”

That queer little document!  I can see it now for the childish simple thing it was, but at the time I read it in a suppressed anguish of rage.  It plunged me into a pit of hopeless shame; there seemed to remain no pride for me in life until I had revenge.  I stood staring at those rounded upstanding letters, not trusting myself to speak or move.  At last I stole a glance at Stuart.

He held the envelope in his hand, and stared down at the postmark between his horny thumbnails.

“You can’t even tell where she is,” he said, turning the thing round in a hopeless manner, and then desisting.  “It’s hard on us, Willie.  Here she is; she hadn’t anything to complain of; a sort of pet for all of us.  Not even made to do her share of the ’ousework.  And she goes off and leaves us like a bird that’s learnt to fly.  Can’t trust us, that’s what takes me.  Puts ’erself—­ But there!  What’s to happen to her?”

“What’s to happen to him?”

He shook his head to show that problem was beyond him.

“You’ll go after her,” I said in an even voice; “you’ll make him marry her?”

“Where am I to go?” he asked helplessly, and held out the envelope with a gesture; “and what could I do?  Even if I knew—­ How could I leave the gardens?”

“Great God!” I cried, “not leave these gardens!  It’s your Honor, man!  If she was my daughter—­if she was my daughter—­I’d tear the world to pieces!” . .  I choked.  “You mean to stand it?”