"What's the letter 'bout, anyway?" she said. "Is it from the guy?"
"You mean Sir Guy," said Phœbe, in injured tones.
"Oh, well, sir or ma'am! Did he write it?"
"Why, truth to tell," said Phœbe, slipping the note into her bosom, "'Tis but one of the letters I read to thee from yon carved box, Rebecca."
"My sakes—that!" cried her sister. "How'd the butcher's boy find it? You don't s'pose he stole it out o' the Panchronicle, do ye?"
"Lord warrant us, sis, no! 'Twas writ this very day. What o'clock is it?"
She ran to the window and looked down the street toward the clock on the Royal Exchange.
"Three i' the afternoon," she muttered. "The time is short. Shall I? Shall I not?"
"Talkin' o' letters," said Rebecca, suddenly, "I wish'd you take one down to the Post-Office fer me, Phœbe." She rose and went to a drawer in the dressing-table. "Here's one 't I wrote to Cousin Jane in Keene. I thought she might be worried about where we'd got to, an' so I've written an' told her we're in London."
"The Post-Office—" Phœbe began, laughingly. Then she checked herself. Why undeceive her sister? Here was the excuse she had been seeking.