It had begun to seem more like
an evil dream to her now--a nightmare happening that never could
have taken place in ordinary, normal existence.
Burke did not come over to see them again, nor did he write.
Evidently he was too busy to do either. But one evening Merston
announced his intention of riding over to Blue Hill Farm, and asked
Sylvia if she would like to send a note by him.
"You've got ten minutes to do it in," he gaily told her. "So you'd
better leave all the fond adjectives till the end and put them in
if you have time."
She thanked him carelessly enough for his advice, but when she
reached her own room she found herself confronted with a problem
that baffled her. How was she to write to Burke? What could she
say to him? She felt strangely confounded and unsure of herself.
Eight of the allotted ten minutes had flown before she set pencil
to paper. Then, hurriedly, with trembling fingers, she scribbled a
few sentences. "I hope all is well with you. We are very busy
here. Matilda is better, and I am quite fit and enjoying the work.
Is Mary Ann looking after you properly?" She paused there.
Somehow the thought of Burke with only the Kaffir servants to
minister to him sent an odd little pang through her. She had begun
to accustom him to better things. She wondered if he were
lonely--if he wanted her.
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