And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat a-sewing, what should Father set down afore me, in the stead of the sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full of fair blank paper ready to be writ in,—and an whole bundle of pens, with a great inkhorn. Milly fell a-laughing.
“Oh dear, dear!” saith she. “Be we three to write up all those? Verily, Father, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen a good half of this chronicle yourself.”
“Nay, not so much as one line,” saith he, “saving those few I have writ already on the first leaf. Let Nell read them aloud.”
So I read them, as I set them down here, for without I do copy them, cannot I put in what was said.
“Fees and Charges of the Chronicle of Selwick Hall.—Imprimis, to be writ, turn about, by a month at each, by Helen, Milisent, and Editha Louvaine.”
Milly was stuffing her kerchief into her mouth to let her from laughing right out.
“Item, the said Helen to begin the said book.
“Item, for every blot therein made, one penny to the poor.”
“Oh, good lack!” from Milly.
“I care not, so Father give us the pennies,” from Edith.