spoken out as plainly as I do in writing to you. And having thus written, without awe of his gray eye and dark brow, I have half a mind to add—'seize him in a happy moment and show him this letter.' Yes, I give you full leave; show it to him if you think it would avail. If not, throw it into the fire, and pray Heaven for those whom we poor mortals cannot serve."
On the envelope Alban had added these words—"But, of course, before showing the inclosed, you will prepare Darrell's mind to weigh its contents." And probably it was in that curt and simple injunction that the subtle man of the world evinced the astuteness of which not a trace was apparent in the body of his letter.
Though Alban's communication had much excited his nephew, yet George had not judged it discreet to avail himself of the permission to show it to Darrell. It seemed to him that the pride of his host would take much more offense at its transmission through the hands of a third person than at the frank tone of its reasonings and suggestions. And George had determined to reinclose it to the Colonel, urging him to forward it himself to Darrell just as it was, with but a brief line to say, "that on reflection, Alban submitted, direct to his old schoolfellow, the reasonings and apprehensions which he had so unreservedly poured forth in a letter commenced without the intention at which the writer arrived at the close." But now that the preacher had undertaken the duty of an advocate, the letter became his brief.
George passed through the library, through the study, up the narrow stair that finally conducted to the same lofty cell in which Darrell had confronted the midnight robber who claimed a child in Sophy. With a nervous hand George knocked at the door.
Unaccustomed to any intrusion on the part of guest or household in that solitary retreat, somewhat sharply, as if in anger, Darrell's voice answered the knock.
"Who's there?"
"George Morley."
Darrell opened the door.
