The whole matter is this.
The tea-things had just been cleared away, the baby just got fast asleep
and laid in his crib, my wife just got fixed by the round-table making a
blue velvet cap for him, and I had just got comfortably settled in my
arm-chair on the other side of the table, when Tom returned from the
post-office through the rain and mud and dark bringing one letter. My
wife gave a pish! when I told her it was not from her mother, but
apologized immediately for her expression when I informed her that the
letter—broad, thick and with a vast deal of ink in the
superscription—was from Charley. Giving the wick of the lard-lamp
another turn she begged me to read it aloud.
Tearing off the envelope—drawing my chair a little nearer the fire and
clearing my throat I read—