“Why, Dally, my gel; you are a wicked one, and no mistake.”
“Oh, no, I’m not, gran’fa. I’m only fighting for myself; and you said you’d help me.”
“And so I will, my pet; but I can’t spare no money.”
“Well, I don’t know that I want it yet, gran’fa; but I want you to do something else.”
“Ay, ay. What is it?” said the old man eagerly. “Not buy anything?”
“No, not buy anything,” said Dally, diving her soft, round little arm down into her pocket, to reach which she had to raise one side of her dress. “I want you to write something, gran’fa.”
“Nay, I never write now. Write it yourself. What you want me to write for, after all the schooling you’ve had?”
“Well, I have written something, gran’fa, but I want you to do it, too.”
Dally had fished out a large, common-looking Prayer Book, which opened easily in two places, from each of which she took an envelope, and laid upon the table. One was directed, and on being opened she took out a note. The other was blank, and with a folded sheet of paper therein.
Dally was quite at home in the sexton’s cottage, and going to the mantelpiece she took down a corked penny ink-bottle, and a pen from out of a little common vase, while, from their special place, she took the old man’s spectacles.