I hardly remember what sort of a tear-blotched, loving, and penitent epistle the last was, but perhaps it would have answered as well as a longer one. Just then a postman hove in sight. He stopped to refresh himself, and I ran out and gave him the letters. I had not even forgotten to put the correct number of stamps on poor mamma’s.
So we had crossed the Rubicon.
But having sent the letter to mamma, a load appeared to have fallen off my mind, all in a heap as it were.
When we asked the landlady how much was to pay, she looked at us and said, “Sixpence each.”
“Which way are you going?” she added.
“North,” I answered.
“You’ll be on a walking tour, young sirs?”
I nodded.
“Well, you better not walk farther the night. There isn’t another house now for seven miles. You’re on the moor. I can give you a clean, nice bed, and breakfast any time you like in the morning.”
I consulted with Jill and we concluded to stay.