Mary Willee bent close over the sheet of ruled note-paper and laboriously traced out the words, dipping her pen every few seconds with professional punctiliousness and screwing up her homely face into all sorts of homely expressions: tongue now tight-bitten between her teeth, now working restlessly in one cheek, now hard pressed against bulging lips. There was agony for both of them in this business of producing a love-letter: agony for Mary Willee because she had never fully mastered the art of writing, and the shaping just-so of the letters and above all the spelling brought out beads of sweat on her forehead; agony for Sabine Bob because her heart was so burstingly full and words were so powerless to ease that bursting.
Besides, how could she be sure, really, positively sure, that Mary Willee was recording there on that paper the very words, just those very words and none others, which she was confiding to her! Writing was a tricky affair. Tricky, like the English language which Sabine Bob was using, against her will, for the reason that Mary Willee had never learned to write French. French was natural. In French one could say what one thought: it felt homelike. In English one had to be stiff.
"Read me what I have said so far," directed Sabine Bob, and she held to the seat of her chair with her bony hands and listened.
Mary Willee began, compliantly. "'My dearling Thomas'"—
Sabine Bob interrupted. "The number of the day comes first. Always! I brought you the calendar with the day marked on it."
"I wrote it here," said Mary Willee. "You need not be so anxious. I have done letters before this."
"Oh, but everything is so important!" ejaculated Sabine, with tragedy in her voice. "Now begin again."
"'My dearling Thomas. It is bad times here. So much fogg all ways. i was houghing potatoes since 2 days and they looks fine and i am nitting yous some socks for when yous come back. i hope you is getting lots of them poggiz.'"
Mary Willee hesitated. "I ain't just sure how to spell that word," she confessed.