"Though it is always the
same, I never do think myself worthy! But I must try to grow very
conceited, and assure myself that I am very valuable! so that then I
shall understand everything better, and be wiser."
Philip laughed. "Talking of letters," he said suddenly, "here's one I
wrote to you from Hull--it only got here today. Where it has been
delayed is a mystery. You needn't read it--you know everything in it
already. Then there's a letter on the shelf up there addressed in your
writing--it seems never to have been opened."
He reached it down, and gave it to her. As she took it, her face grew
very sad.
"It is the one I wrote to my father before I left London," she said. And
her eyes filled with tears. "It came too late!"
"Thelma," said Sir Philip then, very gently and gravely, "would you
like--can you bear--to read your father's last words to you? He wrote to
you on his death-bed, and gave the letter to Valdemar--"
"Oh, let me see it!" she murmured half-sobbingly.
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