Strong that she was inwardly agitated. After they
left the table she became visibly nervous. She was "fidgety," to
speak the thought of her perplexed companion. Time and again she
started and appeared to be listening intently, and always there
was a queer little expression in her eyes as of expectancy. Once
or twice Mrs. Strong surprised a flash of anxiety,--aye, even
fear,--in them.
"You haven't read your letters yet, Alix," she said at last, seeking
for some means to divert the girl's thoughts. "There is quite a
pile of them there on the table."
"I don't feel like reading letters tonight," said Alix. "They can
wait till tomorrow." She arose, however, and hurriedly ran through
the pile. "I wrote to David before dinner, Aunt Nancy," she said
suddenly. "A long letter about Sergeant's death. I wanted him to
know how miserably I feel about it."
"Bless your heart, he'll know that without your telling him, child.
I am glad you wrote to him, however."
Alix came to a letter addressed in an unfamiliar hand,--a bold,
masculine scrawl. The postmark was Chicago. She tore it open. It
began with "Dear Alix." She quickly turned to the last page. It
was signed "Addison Blythe." A "thank you" letter, of course.
Her back was to Mrs. Strong as she stood beside the table, bending
slightly forward to get the full light from the library lamp. She
read the letter through to the end; then she walked over to the
fireplace and threw it into the flames.
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