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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
67
Miss
Matty
undid
the
packet
with
a
sigh;
but
she
stifled
it
directly,
as
if
it
were
hardly
right
to
regret
the
flight
of
time,
or
of
life
either.
We
agreed
to
look
them
over
separately,
each
taking
a
different
letter
out
of
the
same
bundle
and
describing
its
contents
to
the
other
before
destroying
it.
I
never
knew
what
sad
work
the
reading
of
old
letters
was
before
that
evening,
though
I
could
hardly
tell
why.
The
letters
were
as
happy
as
letters
could
be—
at
least
those
early
letters
were.
There
was
in
them
a
vivid
and
intense
sense
of
the
present
time,
which
seemed
so
strong
and
full,
as
if
it
could
never
pass
away,
and
as
if
the
warm,
living
hearts
that
so
expressed
themselves
could
never
die,
and
be
as
nothing
to
the
sunny
earth.
I
should
have
felt
less
melancholy,
I
believe,
if
the
letters
had
been
more
so.
I
saw
the
tears
stealing
down
the
well-worn
furrows
of
Miss
Matty’s
cheeks,
and
her
spectacles
often
wanted
wiping.
I
trusted
at
last
that
she
would
light
the
other
candle,
for
my
own
eyes
were
rather
dim,
and
I
wanted
more
light
to
see
the
pale,
faded
ink;
but
no,
even
through
her
tears,
she
saw
and
remembered
her
little
economical
ways.
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