That was on
Thursday. On Friday she had another letter, in a strange hand. It
was from Mr. Donne. No name, no initials were given. If it had
fallen into another person's hands, they could not have
recognised the writer, nor guessed to whom it was sent. It
contained simply these words:--
"For our child's sake, and in his name, I summon you to appoint a
place where I can speak, and you can listen, undisturbed. The
time must be on Sunday; the limit of distance may be the
circumference of your power of walking. My words may be commands,
but my fond heart entreats. More I shall not say now, but,
remember! your boy's welfare depends on your acceding to this
request. Address B. D., Post-Office, Eccleston."
Ruth did not attempt to answer this letter till the last five
minutes before the post went out. She could not decide until
forced to it. Either way she dreaded. She was very nearly leaving
the letter altogether unanswered. But suddenly she resolved she
would know all, the best, the worst. No cowardly dread of
herself, or of others, should make her neglect aught that came to
her in her child's name. She took up a pen and wrote--
"The sands below the rocks, where we met you the other night.
Time, afternoon church."
Sunday came.
"I shall not go to church this afternoon. You know the way, of
course; and I trust you to go steadily by yourselves."
When they came to kiss her before leaving her, according to their
fond wont, they were struck by the coldness of her face and lips.
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