“One day, when Mr. Lesley had been gone a little better than three weeks, a letter came for Susan--I’d need to notice it, for it was the first she’d had since she’d been with me. She ran upstairs directly she heard the postman’s knock, and took the letter from him with her own hands, and stopped to read it in the passage. She was putting it in her pocket as she came back into this room, and her cheeks were flushed as bright as two red roses; but she didn’t say a word about the letter. All that afternoon she seemed in a kind of flutter, and every now and then she would come all over in a tremble, and drop her work in her lap. She was making some pinafores for the boys, and I said to her, ‘Susan, what ever is the matter?’ but she turned it off somehow, and nothing more was said until after tea, when the children were safe out of the way, and we were sitting alone together. Then I never did see anybody so restless as she was, laying her work down and taking it up again, and fetching a book--one of the books he’d left with her,--and opening and shutting it, and then pretending to read, but all in the same restless way; till at last she came suddenly behind my chair, and flung her arms round my neck, and began to sob fit to break her poor loving heart. And it was ever so long before she could get calm enough to say anything; but at last she cried out, ‘Oh, Mrs. Burfield, I’m afraid I’m very ungrateful; you’ve been so good to me, and we’ve been so happy together.’ And so we had; though I do think, poor tender-hearted dear, she’d gone through as much on account of the taxes as if she’d been the householder instead of me. ‘I’m going to leave you, Mrs. Burfield,’ she said; ‘I’m going to leave you, and the children that love me so dearly. I’m going away to be married to Mr. Lesley. I’m to go by the first train to-morrow morning, and he’s to meet me at the station, and at eleven o’clock we’re to be married.’