"She couldn't come in any case, you see," said Hal; "because she has her own home and her husband to look after."
The bailiff shook his head.
"He's dead," said he. "He died about the same time as my wife, and so did the boy. She wrote to me to know if I could give her any help. There was a little girl, I think."
"Then she's just the very one," said Hal.
"Unless she's married some one else," added Farmer Bluff. "But she wouldn't come. 'Tain't likely, after how I've treated her."
"You don't deserve it, certainly," admitted Hal; which was not exactly what the farmer meant. "But sisters are amazingly forgiving—so they say. (I always wish I'd got one, do you know?) If I were you, I'd write to her."
This advice was rather out of place, seeing the helpless condition of the old fellow's hands. The upshot of it was, however, that Hal sat down to write from Farmer Bluff's dictation; and between them they made up a letter, setting forth the state of things, and offering Mrs. Rust a home, if she were willing to forgive the past, and come to live with him. Then Hal got up to say good-bye.
"I'll be sure and have it posted," said he. "If I put it in the hall with all the other letters, Perkins will take it when he goes from work."
