"I wished to come, godmother. Indeed, I never stopped thinking about you here; but there is no one to stay by father when I leave him, and he needs care."
"Of course he does, and something else as well. I was just putting up a bottle or two of our choice old Madeira, with some jellies, and the cook is roasting a bird, which he must eat with the black currant-jelly, remember. We must build your father up, now, with nice, strengthening things. They would do you no harm, either, child. Why, how thin and worried you look, Ruth! This constant nursing will break you down. We must send over one of the maids, to help."
"No, no; I can do very well. Father is used to me, you know. Only, if you wish to be kind—"
"Wish to be kind? Did I ever fail in that, goddaughter?"
"Did you ever? Indeed, no. Only I am always asking such out-of-the-way things."
"Well, well. What is it, now?"
"I have a letter from my father to—to the young master."
"From your father? When did he ever write a letter before, I wonder? And he sick in bed? A letter—"
"That I want to deliver into Wal—into Mr. Hurst's own hands, if you will only help me, godmother."
"Into his own hands? As if any other trusty person wouldn't do as well," said the housekeeper, discontentedly.