“What is it?” said Bessie in Dutch, her lips trembling as she spoke.
“A letter,” answered the man.
“Give it to me.”
“No, missie, not till I have looked at you to see if it is right. Light yellow hair that curls—one,” checking it on his fingers, “yes, that is right; large blue eyes—two, that is right; big and tall, and fair as a star—yes, the letter is for you, take it,” and he poked the long stick almost into her face.
“Where is it from?” asked Bessie, with sudden suspicion and recoiling a step.
“Wakkerstroom last.”
“Who is it from?”
“Read it, and you will see.”
Bessie took the letter, which was wrapped in a piece of old newspaper, from the cleft of the stick and turned it over and over doubtfully. Most of us have a mistrust of strange-looking letters, and this letter was unusually strange. To begin with, it had no address whatever on the dirty envelope, which seemed curious. In the second place, that envelope was sealed, apparently with a threepenny bit.
“Are you sure it is for me?” asked Bessie.