It is not a very happy life, Henry--I own that.'
She paused, observing the growing anxiety of his expression
as he looked at her, with a shy satisfaction that perplexed him.
'Do you know that I have anticipated your idea?' she went on.
'I am going to make a great change in my life--if your brother
Stephen and his wife will only consent to it.' She opened the desk
of the writing-table while she spoke, took a letter out, and handed it
to Henry.
He received it from her mechanically. Vague doubts, which he hardly
understood himself, kept him silent. It was impossible that the 'change
in her life' of which she had spoken could mean that she was about
to be married--and yet he was conscious of a perfectly unreasonable
reluctance to open the letter. Their eyes met; she smiled again.
'Look at the address,' she said. 'You ought to know the handwriting--
but I dare say you don't.'
He looked at the address. It was in the large, irregular,
uncertain writing of a child. He opened the letter instantly.
'Dear Aunt Agnes,--Our governess is going away. She has had money
left to her, and a house of her own.
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