“You should have come to the point a little sooner, Old Rogers.”
He then laid down his plane, and went out of the workshop, leaving Rogers standing there in bewilderment. But he was not gone many minutes. He returned with a letter in his hand.
“There,” he said, giving it to Rogers.
“I can’t read hand o’ write,” returned Rogers. “I ha’ enough ado with straight-foret print But I’ll take it to parson.”
“On no account,” returned Thomas, emphatically “That’s not what I gave it you for. Neither you nor parson has any right to read that letter; and I don’t want either of you to read it. Can Jane read writing?”
“I don’t know as she can, for, you see, what makes lasses take to writin’ is when their young man’s over the seas, leastways not in the mill over the brook.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Thomas, and taking the letter from Rogers’s hand, he left the shop again.
He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an envelope, addressed to Miss Oldcastle.
“Now, you tell your Jane to give that to Miss Oldcastle from me—mind, from ME; and she must give it into her own hands, and let no one else see it. And I must have it again. Mind you tell her all that, Old Rogers.”
“I will. It’s for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to know on’t. And you’re to have it again all safe when done with.”