"I haven't seen any papers for three days, Molly. What's become of them all?"
Theodore and Molly were sitting in the waning sunshine, the many-colored autumn leaves drifting silently past them to form a varied carpet over the grass.
All fear had now left the woman. She had Jinnie's promise not to see Theodore, and he had apparently forgotten there ever was such a girl in the world.
"I'd really like to see the papers," repeated Theodore. "Dear me, how glad I am to be so well!"
"We're all glad," whispered Molly, with bright eyes.
She had kept the papers from him purposely, playfully pretending she would rather give him an account of the court proceedings. When she described how another man had confessed to the shooting, Theodore felt a glad thrill that the cobbler was exonerated. Later Molly decided she would tell him about Morse, but never that she had married him. It was she who suggested, after a time of silence: "Theodore, don't you think a little trip would do us all good? Your mother's been so worried over you----"
"Where would we go?" he asked, without interest.
"Anywhere to get away from Bellaire for a season."
"We might consider it," he replied reluctantly. Then he fell to thinking of a blue-eyed girl, of the letter,--that puzzling letter she had sent him. When he could bear his thoughts no longer, he got up and walked away under the trees, and Molly allowed him to go. She watched him strolling slowly, and was happy. He had been so sweet, so kindly, almost thrilling to her of late. She would make him love her. It would be but a matter of a few weeks if she could get him away from Bellaire. Just at that moment Mrs. King's bell rang, and she went into the house. When she came back, Theodore was sitting on the veranda reading a letter, with another one unopened on his knee. The sight of his white face brought an exclamation from her lips.
"Theodore!" she cried.
He reminded her she was standing by saying: "Sit down!"
This she was glad to do, for her knees trembled. Her eyes caught the handwriting on the unopened letter, resting like a white menace on Theodore's lap. She saw her own name upon it, but dared not, nor had she the strength, to ask for it.
At length, with a long breath, Theodore looked at her steadily.
"This letter is for you," he said, picking up her own. "Open it and then--give it to me."