The groom hesitated. "I think I'll stick to it; she gave me sixpence to make sure he got it, and I wouldn't like to cheat her."
"Stick to the sixpence but give me the letter. Who's a better right to it than I, I should like to know? I'm as good as married already," said Dixon, stretching out his hand.
"You'll promise not to forget."
"I'm not one as forgets," said Dixon, with an odd laugh.
"And if there's any mistake you'll settle it?"
"Yes; I'll settle it."
The groom gave the note and went out whistling; he was not quite easy in his mind about the missive. Left to himself, Dixon turned the envelope round in his fingers, examining it back and front. The blotted writing gave evidence of hurry, the blistered paper testified to tears, and Dixon broke into an oath.
"The little jade!—that's the second time she's cried about him this week to my certain knowledge," he said aloud. "She would not dare to chuck me now, though, even if she does love the other one; but I've more than half a mind to put this in the fire. It may be to tell him that she's settled things with me; but it would not be a bad joke to let him hear it for himself in church, and her telling him nothing about it, good or bad, would let him know she did not care much for him."
In another moment there was a brief blaze in the fire, and Rose's note was reduced to ashes.
The next morning Tom Burney rose with the feeling that he trod on air, such a strange exhilaration of spirit possessed him.