Further, to speak at hazard, he should judge that this matter, whatever it might be, was not altogether disagreeable to the writer.
Mary's letter also had its peculiarities.

She always wrote in a large, loose scrawl, running the words into one another after the idle fashion which was an index to her character.

In this instance, however, the fault had been carried to such an extreme that the address was almost illegible; indeed, Morris wondered that the letter had not been delayed.
The stamps, too, were affixed anyhow, and the envelope barely closed.
"Something has happened," he thought to himself.

Then he opened Mary's letter.

It was dated Tuesday, that is, two days before, and ran: "Dearest,--My father is dead, my poor old father, and now I have nobody but you left in the world.