There was a definite sense in Reuben's mind that the old man was not saying what he wished to say, and this sense was strengthened when Ezra, after moving once or twice in his seat, cleared his throat and began to walk up and down the room. “Had you read that letter as you brought to me this morning, lad?” he asked, coughing behind his hand, and trying to speak as if the thing were a commonplace trifle. “I read it because I thought that it must be addressed to me,” said Reuben. “I had written to Ruth, and she told me to look in Manzini for her answer. I found nothing but that letter in the book.” “Why, how was that?” asked Ezra, without turning towards him. “Her own note had been taken away before I got the book.” Reuben felt himself on dangerous ground. It was unpleasant to have to talk of these things, and it looked impossible to reveal Rachel's eccentricity to Ezra, knowing what he knew. “Ah!” said Ezra, absent-mindedly. “You read the letter then!” He went on pacing up and down. “You understood it?” “I--seemed to understand it,” said Reuben. Ezra came back to his chair and seated himself with a look of half resolve. “Reuben,” he began, in a voice pathetically ill-disguised, “it was something of a cruelty as that letter should ha' been found at all after such a lapse o' time. The rights of the case was these: As a younger man than now--I was six-an'-thirty at the time--I wrote to--I wrote an offer of myself in marriage to a person as was then resident i' this parish. The day but one after I wrote I had to go up to London to see to some affairs as was in the lawyer's hands relating to thy grandfather's property. He'd been dead a year or more, and the thing was only just got straight. While theer, I heard Paganini, and I've told you, more than once, I never cared to touch a bow theerafter. I found Manzini on the music-stand and closed the pages. He was open theer as I had left him, for I was a bit particular about my things, and mother used to pretend as her dursn't lay a hand upon 'em. I waited and waited for th' answer. I met the person as I had wrote to once, and bowed to her. I've remembered often and often the start her gave, as if I'd done her some sort of insult. I could never understand how or why. I did not know as I had gi'en her any right to treat me thus contemptuous. I thought her set a value upon herself beyond my deservin's, and I abode to bear it. In the course of a two-three weeks she left the parish, and I made up my mind as her'd left despising me. I won't pretend as I might not ha' found her letter if her had been less prideful and disdainous, for in the course of a little while I might ha' gone back to the music if things had gone happier with me. But it would ha' been kinder not to know the truth at all than find it out so late.”