It was the postmark, the thin paper of the foreign letter, the stamp of the hotel which had caught her eye; and it had not occurred to her as she opened the envelope that it was not Arthur’s handwriting. Indeed, Nancy had been copying Arthur’s handwriting, and had partially succeeded in making her own like his, at least for the length of the address. When she called to Lucy, it was that she had perceived the different writing, the unexpected form of address within, and had jumped at the conclusion that something had happened to Arthur, and that it was his servant who was writing. Lucy rushed to her, seeing her agitation, and coming behind her, read over her shoulder the letter which Lady Curtis threw an alarmed glance over, trembling in every limb. They trembled, both of them, with excitement as they went on. It was not what they expected; it was neither a letter from Arthur, nor yet an announcement of his illness, but something else, which they had not anticipated or thought of. It was the letter Nancy had written in hot haste and desperation, after the visit of Mrs. Curtis had come to so violent and sudden an end. My lady read it, the paper trembling in her hand, and Lucy read it over her shoulder, with painful, suppressed exclamations. This is what Nancy had said:-- “My Lady, “Arthur says I am to write to you, though I do not know why; and I have told him I will, if I may say what I like and not show it to him. So you will know, if you are offended, that he has no hand in this. I am to say, I suppose, that I am sorry, though why I cannot tell. I did not think about you when I consented to marry Arthur? Why should I? In our class of life we don’t think that a young man’s mother has any right to interfere. I never thought of you, therefore I maintain I have nothing to be sorry for about you. I have enough to do to please my own father and mother; why should not he manage his as I did mine? “And since we were married, what did I owe to you? You never did anything for me. You wrote to him, or you made Miss Lucy write to him on our wedding-day, and never once named me. You knew I would be his wife before he got it, but you never named me. Was that a way to make me wish to please you? And the best I could do was never to think of you at all. Was not that as good as putting him against me, never to mention my name on my wedding day? And why should I write to you now? You are old, and I am young. You ought to be the one to come and to say you are sorry. I am your son’s wife; therefore, I am as good as you are, whatever I may have been before; and I was an honest girl before, and as good as anybody. Why didn’t you come then, and make up to _me_? It is old people who ought to show an example to the young, not young people to the old.