that she could not read it under her mother’s eyes.
Mrs. Spencer went out with unaccustomed acquiescence, and Rachel went quickly to the window, where she read her letter by the fading gleams of twilight. It was very brief, and the writing was that of a man who holds a pen but seldom.
“My dear little girl,” it ran, “I’m sorry I can’t
go to your wedding. It was like you to ask me —
for I know it was your doing. I wish I could see
you married, but I can’t go to the house I was turned
out of. I hope you will be very happy. I am sending you the shells and teapot you liked so much.
Do you remember that day we had such a good time?
I would liked to have seen you again before you
were married, but it can’t be.
“Your loving father,
“David Spencer.”
Rachel resolutely blinked away the tears that filled her eyes. A fierce desire for her father sprang up in her heart — an insistent hunger that would not be denied. She must see her father; she must have his blessing on her new life. A sudden determination took possession of her whole being — a determination that swept aside all conventionalities and objections as if they had not been.
It was now almost dark. The guests would not be coming for half an hour yet. It was only fifteen minutes’ walk over the hill to the Cove. Hastily Rachel shrouded herself in her new raincoat, and
