As you can't take the trouble to write any more, you'll hardly wonder if I think you sent that one to keep me quiet.' She wrote too often in this style.

But, whether in this style or another, John made no answer--had apparently ceased to write.
One afternoon towards the end of April she was sitting at her work in the parlour, with the window open to the lengthening day, when she heard the gate open and shut.

A woman in black came up the pathway, and, seeing Phoebe at the window, stopped short.

Phoebe rose, and, as the visitor threw back her veil, recognised the face of Mr.Morrison's daughter, Bella.
She gave a slight cry; then, full of pity and emotion, she hastened to open the door.
'Oh, Miss Morrison!' She held out her hand; her attitude, her beautiful eyes, breathed compassion, and also embarrassment.

The thought of the debt rushed into her mind.