“Ho! Now, then, once more. There’s a servant lives there at that house, and her name’s Jane—ain’t it?”
“No, sir, Mary.”
“And she’s got red hair and freckles, and she—she’s very little and—”
“No, no,” I cried excitedly, for after my heart had seemed to sink terribly low, it now leaped at his words. “That isn’t Mary, and you are saying all this to try me, sir. You—you are Mr William Revitts, I know you are;” and I caught him eagerly by the arm.
“Which I don’t deny it, boy,” he said, still looking at me suspiciously, and removing my hand. “Revitts is my name. P.C. Revitts, VV 240; and I ain’t ashamed of it. But only to think of it. How did you know of me, though?”
“I wrote Mary’s letters for her, sir.”
“Whew! That’s how it was she had so improved in her writing. And so you’ve been living in the same house along a her?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “and she was so good and kind.”
“When she wasn’t in a tantrum, eh?”
“Yes, sir, when she wasn’t in a—”