I opened it hastily.

It only contained a few words, which I have before me as I write now.

The ink is a little faded and yellow, but the impression it made is yet vivid as on that summer morning.
"MY DEAREST SOPHY," it began,--"Come to me here at once, if possible, or it may be too late.

I want to see you.

They say that I am ill, and too weak to travel to England.
"Your loving brother, "JOHN." There was a great change in the style, from the cold and conventional notes that he had hitherto sent at such long intervals; from the stiff "Dear Sophia" and "Sincerely yours" to which, I grieve to say, I had grown accustomed.