"Nay, how do we know the Squire is a Widower? He's too old."
"Perhaps she won't marry either," said Prue.
"Perhaps not, Mrs. Prue, but let me tell you, neither you nor your Sister could have writ that Letter."
"Well, Father, I suppose a Woman does not get married for writing a Letter. For my Part, I don't see much in it. Anybody, I suppose, could write, if they had Anything to write about."
"No, that don't follow—it's a non sequitur, as the Scholars say."
"I don't set up for a Scholar, not I," said Prue, "I never was so good a Hand at my Pen as Patty; but I worked the best Sampler, for all that."
"Well," says my Father, "say, when you write to her, Patty, that I don't care how often I pay a Shilling for such a Voice from the Basket as that. I wish she'd send us one every Week."
It indeed was Something curious, how my Father's Fancy was hit by this Letter, which he got me to read to him many Evenings following. What was more remarkable, Mr. Fenwick praised it too, though after a more temperate Manner. He called it easy Writing. Now, sure, what is easy, is not so meritorious as what is difficult! And he added it was almost as good as some of the Letters in the Spectator; which, everybody must own, was immoderate. Gatty could historify plain enough what passed before her own Eyes and was heard by her own Ears; but she could not frame a Sentence that required some Exertion of the Mind to follow; which, I take it, is the Perfection of good Writing; at least, I know that's the Way with our best Authors. And no Shame to her for it: Women are not to be blamed for not shining in what is out of their Province; and she spelt perfectly well, and wrote a neat, flowing Hand, which had found Plenty of Practice under Lady Betty; only, to set her up with the Amandas and Dorindas that corresponded with Sir Richard Steele; why, the Thing was clearly preposterous.
Meanwhile, Mr. Fenwick continued to find his Way down to us most Evenings, with his Book in his Hand; and I must say he made the Time pass very pleasantly and swiftly; but though he read quite loud enough for such a small Company, 'twas evident to himself as well as to us, that his Voice would by no means yet fill a Church; besides which, his Breath soon became short, and a red Spot would come on his Cheek; which, whenever my Mother noticed, she always made him shut his Book, and would talk about Anything that chanced, rather than let him over-tire himself. Meanwhile, he heard Nothing, as far as I could glean, of Mr. Caryl: I know he got no Letters, nor received any Visitor; and that, I think, tended to make the red Spot infix itself on his Cheek. I pitied him heartily—"Hope deferred maketh the Heart sick"—but yet it was a Matter I could not presume to express Sympathy with him upon; nor was I qualified to allay any of his Uneasiness. But I kept anxiously looking out for Mr. Caryl's entering the Shop. One Forenoon, Lady Betty's Man, Mr. James, came in; and, says he, "Your Servant, Mrs. Patty—My Lady is going to give a grand Masked Ball to-morrow Evening; and it occurred to me that you and your Sister might like to look on. If so, I can secure you good Places, where you will see without being seen; and you will only have to come early, and ask the Hall Porter for Mr. James."