“He did give it to me to post, my dear,” said Miss Clode with a curious smile, “and before I post it I am bound to see that he has not written anything that is not good for the la—person it is for.”
“Oh, yes, auntie, I see,” said Miss Slade, resting her fat cheeks on her fat fingers, and watching attentively as her aunt took out a seal from a tin box, one that looked as if it were made of putty, and compared it with the sealing-wax on the letter.
This being satisfactory, she cleverly held the wax to the little taper till it began to bubble and boil, when it parted easily, the paper being drawn open and only some silky threads of wax securing it, these being at once brushed aside.
“Oh, you have got it open lovely, auntie,” said the girl.
“Yes, my dear; and now I am going to read it,” said Miss Clode, suiting the deed to the word, skimming through the note rapidly, and then refolding it.
“Oh, I say, auntie, what does he say?” said the girl with her eyes sparkling. “Is it about love?”
“Don’t ask questions, and you will not get strange answers,” said Miss Clode austerely, as she deftly melted the wax once more, and applied the well-made bread seal, after which there was nothing to show that the letter had been opened. “I see, though, that it was quite time I did trust you, my dear, and I hope I shall have no cause to repent.”
Just then a customer entered the shop, and again Miss Clode went to attend.
“I know it was a love-letter,” said Annie quickly; “and it was Sir Harry Payne wrote it. I wonder who it was to. I wish he’d make love to me.”
Miss Clode came back directly with a volume of poems in her hand—a new copy, and looking significantly at her niece she said: