"I've got this far: 'Judley Sherrod, Esq., Dear Sir,'" she said. "What next?"
"His name is Dudley," corrected the parson.
"Oh," murmured the secretary, blushing. Then she wrote it all over again on another piece of paper.
"You might say something like this," said Mr. Marks, thoughtfully. "'It is with pain that we feel called upon to acquaint you with the state of affairs in your home.' Have you written that?"
"'Fate of astairs in your home,'" read Miss Cunningham. Mr. Hardesty was looking over her shoulder, and at times his unconscious chin-whiskers tickled her rosy ear.
"'We are sure that you will forgive the nature of this missive, and yet we know that it will hurt you far beyond the pain of the most cruel sword thrust. You, to whom we all extend the deepest love and respect, must prepare to receive a shock, but you must bear it with Christian fortitude.' Do I go too fast, Miss Cunningham?"
"'You, who toom'—I mean—'to whom, etc.'" wrote the secretary.
"Sounds like we're trying to tell him there's a death in the family," said Mr. Hardesty.
"'Your wife has been left so long to the mercies of the——' No; please change that, Miss Secretary. 'Your wife has not conducted herself as a good woman should. She has forgotten her wifely honor——'"
"Good Lord!" came a hoarse voice from the hallway. The assemblage turned and saw Eugene Crawley. Jim Hardesty afterwards admitted that he did not "breathe fer so long that his lungs seemed air-tight when he finally did try to git wind into 'em."