“No, ’m, please, ’m. Teacher’s sent me with a letter, ’m.”
“Indeed!” cried Beatrice, thrown by excitement off her guard. “To Mr Canninge?”
“No, ’m, please ’m; to Mr William Forth Burge, ’m.”
“To Mr William Forth Burge!” cried Rebecca, excited in her turn. “What is Miss Thorne writing to him for?”
“Please ’m, I don’t know, ’m. Teacher said I was to take this letter, ’m, and I don’t know any more.”
“It is very strange, Beatrice,” said Rebecca querulously.
“Strange indeed,” replied her sister, who felt better on finding that her suspicions were incorrect, and worse at having betrayed the bent of her own thoughts, and not troubling herself about her sister’s feelings in the least.
“Ought we to do anything, Beatrice?” said Rebecca, whose fingers itched to get hold of the letter.
“Do anything?” said Beatrice.
“Yes,” said Rebecca in a low tone, unheard by Ann Straggalls, whose large moist lips were some distance apart to match her eyelids, as she stared at the vicar’s sisters; “ought we to let that note go?”