He opened it last; anyone observing him would have seen with what
reluctance he began to read it.

'My dear Richard,' it ran, 'I write to thank you for the money. I
would very much rather have had a letter from you, however short a
one. It seems long since you wrote a real letter, and I can't think
how long since I have seen you. But I know how full of business you
are, dear, and I'm sure you would never come to London without
telling me, because if you hadn't time to come here, I should be
only too glad to go to Highbury, if only for one word. We have got
some mourning dresses to make for the servants of a lady in
Islington, so that is good news. But poor Jane is very bad indeed.
She suffers a great deal of pain, and most of all at night, so that
she scarcely ever gets more than half-an-hour of sleep at a time, if
that. What makes it worse, dear Richard, is that she is so very
unhappy. Sometimes she cries nearly through the whole night. I try
my best to keep her up, but I'm afraid her weakness has much to do
with it. But Kate is very well, I am glad to say, and the children
are very well too. Bertie is beginning to learn to read. He often
says he would like to see you. Thank you, dearest, for the money and
all your kindness, and believe that I shall think of you every
minute with much love. From yours ever and ever,

'EMMA VINE.'

It would be cruel to reproduce Emma's errors of spelling. Richard
had sometimes noted a bad instance with annoyance, but it was not
that which made him hurry to the end this morning with lowered
brows. When he had finished the letter he crumbled it up and threw
it into the fire. It was not heartlessness that made him do so: he