Martha took a deep breath.
"Won't you take a chair, Mrs. Peckett? An' I'll sit, too. An' so will you, Sam. So long's we got on this subjec', we better come to a clear understandin'. That's always the best way. As I said at the start, Sam, I have been writin' to Gilroy, an' he's been writin' to me."
She leaned from her chair to where her sewing-machine stood, pulled open the drawer of its table, and took therefrom a couple of thin envelopes tied about with a strand of black darning-cotton.
"P'raps I'd ought to have told you firstoff, Sam, but I didn't, because I thought your feelin's might be hurt, an'—what you don't know won't worry you. The day after you had the news of Andy's note comin' doo, I got a letter from Gilroy. I've it right here now. Also mine answerin' it. That's to say, a copy of mine answerin' it. The reason I kep' 'm is, Gilroy is with Judge Granville, an'—well—when you're dealin' with foxy parties, you got to be foxy to match'm. I won't read you the letters. If you like, you can read'm. They're here for you. Gilroy said 'twas him held your note for Andy. He'd took it over, an' he was writin' me to say that, for the sake o' the days gone by, he wanted to do me a kindness. He said he'd let you off the note. He said, well he knew what a poor provider you was, an' we'd prob'ly none too much, if we had anythin' a tall, an', as for him, he'd plenty, so he'd never miss it, bein' as he is a bachelder, an' right-hand-man to Judge Granville, an' prosperin' better an' better every day.
"I wrote'm back, post-haste, that I thanked'm kindly, but you'd already sent the money to Andy. Such bein' the case, I couldn't o' course take him at his word to let you off the note, but knowin' me so well as he'd used to, he'd know that I'd like nothin' better than take money off'n a friend who meant so kindly by me as his letter showed he did. Bein' that kind of a friend, I said, I knew he'd like to hear you're doin' grand—you're right-hand-man to Mr. Ronald, an' we've all we need an' more, too, an' prosperin' better an' better every day.
"I took my letter to Miss Claire, before ever I sent it off, to make sure it was all right, an' Gilroy'd know what I meant. Miss Claire laughed when she was through readin' it. She said, it was surely all right, but what he'd read between the lines had illustrations, whatever that means. Anyhow, it stirred up Gilroy somethin' fierce, an'——" Martha paused, the blood surged up to her face in a tide. "He wrote to me again. A whole lot o' love-sick trash. I sent his letter back to'm (me keepin' a copy) with just a gentle hint o' warnin' to the effec' that if ever he done the like again, I'd tell you on'm, an' we'd both of us come down to New York by the first train, an' take a turn out of'm—first you, an' then me on your leavin's. Here's the whole co-respondence, Sam. I'm glad to get rid of it. It was clutterin' up my machine-drawer. But, p'raps, before you take it, to lock it away—Mrs. Peckett an' Ma would like to examine it."
Mrs. Peckett shook her head.
"Then you're satisfied I ain't a callyope?" Martha asked her.
"A what?" demanded Sam sharply.
"A callyope. One o' them things whistles on a boat, which, every oncet in a while we'd hear'm on the river, down home. Likewise, they mean coqwette."