Chapter 11 THE MOTHER'S LETTER.

What though her gentle heart is breaking!

What though her form grows pale and thin!

His iron heart knows no awaking,

Nor tears nor anguish moveth him.

It was two nights after Thanksgiving. Leicester had thrown himself upon a couch in his chamber. A little sofa-table was by his elbow, and upon it a small and richly chased salver, overflo

            
            

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