“Good news, I hope, Cashel,” said Mrs. Skene, at last, tremulously.
“Blow me if I understand it,” said Cashel. “Can you make it out?” And he handed the letter to his adopted mother. Skene ceased eating to see his wife read, a feat which was to him one of the wonders of science.
“I think the lady she mentions must be herself,” said Mrs. Skene, after some consideration.
“No,” said Cashel, shaking his head. “She always says what she means.”
“Ah,” said Skene, cunningly; “but she can’t write it though. That’s the worst of writing; no one can’t never tell exactly what it means. I never signed articles yet that there weren’t some misunderstanding about; and articles is the best writing that can be had anywhere.”
“You’d better go and see what it means,” said Mrs. Skene.
“Right,” said Skene. “Go and have it out with her, my boy.”
“It is short, and not particularly sweet,” said Fanny. “She might have had the civility to put her crest at the top.”
“What would you give to be her?” said Cashel, derisively, catching the letter as she tossed it disdainfully to him.
“If I was I’d respect myself more than to throw myself at YOUR head.”