The letter was there; it had come, but it was not addressed to him.
Sir John Meredith took up the missive; he looked at the back, turned it, and examined the handwriting of his own son.

There was a whole volume--filled with pride, and love, and unquenchable resolve--written on his face.

He threw the letter down among its fellows, and his hand went fumbling weakly at his lips.

He gazed, blinking his lashless lids, at the heap of letters, and the corner of another envelope presently arrested his attention.

It was of the same paper, of the same shape and hue, as that addressed to Miss Chyne.