March lingered upon the last sad circumstance of the tragedy in which the wounded boy dragged himself home, to suffer the suspicion and neglect of his guardian till death attested his good faith beyond cavil. He said this was the hardest thing to bear in all his story, and that he would like to have a look into the soul of the dull, unkind wretch who had so misread his charge. He was going on with an inquiry that pleased him much, when his wife pulled him abruptly away. "Now, I see, you are yielding to the fascination of it, and you are wanting to take the material from Burnamy!" "Oh, well, let him have the material; he will spoil it. And I can always reject it, if he offers it to 'Every Other Week'." "I could believe, after your behavior to that poor woman about her son in Jersey City, you're really capable of it." "What comprehensive inculpation! I had forgotten about that poor woman." LI. The letters which March had asked his Nuremberg banker to send them came just as they were leaving Ansbach. The landlord sent them down to the station, and Mrs. March opened them in the train, and read them first so that she could prepare him if there were anything annoying in them, as well as indulge her livelier curiosity. "They're from both the children," she said, without waiting for him to ask. "You can look at them later. There's a very nice letter from Mrs. Adding to me, and one from dear little Rose for you." Then she hesitated, with her hand on a letter faced down in her lap. "And there's one from Agatha Triscoe, which I wonder what you'll think of." She delayed again, and then flashed it open before him, and waited with a sort of impassioned patience while he read it. He read it, and gave it back to her. "There doesn't seem to be very much in it." "That's it! Don't you think I had a right to there being something in it, after all I did for her?" "I always hoped you hadn't done anything for her, but if you have, why should she give herself away on paper? It's a very proper letter." "It's a little too proper, and it's the last I shall have to do with her. She knew that I should be on pins and needles till I heard how her father had taken Burnamy's being there, that night, and she doesn't say a word about it." "The general may have had a tantrum that she couldn't describe. Perhaps she hasn't told him, yet." "She would tell him instantly!" cried Mrs. March who began to find reason in the supposition, as well as comfort for the hurt which the girl's reticence had given her. "Or if she wouldn't, it would be because she was waiting for the best chance." "That would be like the wise daughter of a difficult father. She may be waiting for the best chance to say how he took it. No, I'm all for Miss Triscoe, and I hope that now, if she's taken herself off our hands, she'll keep off." "It's altogether likely that he's made her promise not to tell me anything about it," Mrs. March mused aloud.