I
Twelve months almost to a day after her husband’s death, Mary Mahony received a letter that greatly perturbed her.
It was handed to her straight from the sorting table. Recognising the writing, she put on her spectacles and unthinkingly slit it open. But she had not read far before her colour rose, and with a covert glance at her two subordinates — the telegraph operator, who sat lazily picking his nose, had a sly and roving eye — she hastily refolded it and thrust it in her pocket.
There it remained; and all day long she was conscious of it, as of something hot or heavy. Not until evening, when the office was closed and the children lay asleep, did she draw it forth again. Then, alone in her little parlour, she pulled the kerosene-lamp to her and prepared to face the contents.
It wa
