Between the lines of the letter she read the reluctance, the regrets of
the man who had written it. She saw that he would be faithful to her if
he could, but that in her own concentration of love she had accepted
what Oliver had not in truth the strength to give her. The Marsham she
loved had suddenly disappeared, and in his place was a Marsham whom she
might--at a personal cost he would never forget, and might never
forgive--persuade or compel to marry her.
She sprang up. For the first time since the blow had fallen, vigor had
returned to her movements and life to her eyes.
"Ah, no!" she said to herself, panting a little. "_No!_"
A letter fell to the ground--the letter in the unknown handwriting. Some
premonition made her open it and prepared her for the signature.
"MY DEAR MISS MALLORY,--I heard of the sad discovery which
had taken place, from my cousin, Miss Drake, on Sunday
morning, and came up at once from the country to be with my
mother; for I know well with what sympathy she had been
following Oliver's wishes and desires. It is a very painful
business. I do most truly regret the perplexing situation in
which you find yourself, and I am sure you will not resent it
if, as Oliver's sister, I write you my views on the matter.
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