“Come in, lad, come in,” he said, chuckling. “I never seed such a lark i' my born days as we've had here this mornin'.”
“Indeed!” said Reuben. “Can I—” He began to blush and stammer a little. “Can I see Miss Ruth, Mr. Fuller?”
“All i' good time, lad,” replied Fuller. “Come in. Sit thee down.” Reuben complied, scarcely at his ease, and wondered what was coming. “Was you expectin' any sort of a letter last night, Reuben?” the old fellow asked him, with a fat enjoying chuckle.
“Yes, sir,” said Reuben, blushing anew, but regarding his questioner frankly.
“Was that what you took away the book o' duets for, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didst find the letter?” Fuller was determined to make the most of his history, after the manner of men who have stories ready made for them but rarely.
“I don't know,” replied Reuben, to the old man's amazement. “Do you know what the letter was about, Mr. Fuller?”
“Don't know?” cried Fuller. “What beest hov-erin' about? Knowst whether thee hadst a letter or not, dostn't?”
“I had a letter,” said Reuben, “but I can't think it was meant for me. Perhaps I ought to have spoken first to you, sir, but I wrote to Miss Ruth yesterday—” There he paused, asking himself how to put this altogether sacred thing into words.