“Now don’t think that, my poor maiden. I wish it was. But there ban’t no letter-writing in the grave. A man neither sends nor receives ’em in the pit. An’ ’tis not the worst thing as you can say for death that it puts you beyond reach of the penny post—not to name telegrams. You must make up your mind that Daniel be in the better land with saints an’ angels grand. This here is from the West Indies where the rum comes from; an’ if the place be as comforting as the drink, then I make no doubt people do very well there. For rum punch is a glorious brew to make the heart and liver new. But, if you ax me, this letter is from Mr Henry, who be in them parts. He was a close friend of Dan’s; an’ his was the gun that done the dreadful deed when death to Adam Thorpe did speed—Lord! how full I be of rhyme to-night! So, very like, he’s written in his gentlemanly way to comfort you.”
Minnie’s bosom panted, and she put her hand upon it to hide the swift rise and fall. Right well she knew that Mr Beer was wrong, and though the superscription of the letter spread in a scrawling hand quite unlike Daniel’s yet her heart saw through the envelope and she felt that the letter came from her husband.
“Let me have it,” she said. “I’ll tell you what’s to tell to-morrow.”
“Why not read it now?” he asked as he handed the letter to her.
“Time enough. Now take the pony, an’ thank you, an’ good-night.”
Soon she was alone, but Minnie ate no supper that night, for another sort of feast awaited her. She read the long letter thrice from end to end; then, finding that the hour was nine o’clock, and the fireless cottage had grown very cold, she went to bed, and read the letter three times more by candle light. After that the candle suddenly went out, so she cuddled her soft bosom to the pages and slept with them against a happy heart.