"The English papers. The foreign mail is in. And, by the way, here is a
letter for you."
Herman received the letter from her hand, changed color as he looked at
the writing on the envelope, and walked away to the front window to read
it alone.
His mother's watchful eyes followed him.
As he read, his face flushed and paled; his eyes flashed and smoldered;
sighs and moans escaped his lips. At length, softly crumpling up the
letter, he thrust it into his pocket, and was stealing from the room to
conceal his agitation, when his mother, who had seen it all, spoke: "Any bad news, Herman?"
"No, madam," he promptly answered.
"What is the matter, then?"
He hesitated, and answered: "Nothing."
"Who is that letter from?"
"A correspondent," he replied, escaping from the room.
"Humph! I might have surmised that much," laughed the lady, with angry
scorn.
But he was out of hearing.
"Did you notice the handwriting on the envelope of that letter,
Elizabeth?" she inquired of her elder daughter.
"Which letter, mamma?"
"That one for your brother, of course."
"No, mamma, I did not look at it."
"You never look at anything but your stupid worsted work. You will be an
old maid, Elizabeth. Did you notice it, Elinor?"
"Yes, mamma. The superscription was in a very delicate feminine
handwriting; and the seal was a wounded falcon, drawing the arrow from
its own breast--surmounted by an earl's coronet."
"'Tis the seal of the Countess of Hurstmonceux."