“Ah! he’ve a-got a very good place t’other side o’ Darchester. He do write beautiful letters to my sister at Christmas. There, they be jist same’s as if they come out of a book.”
“P’r’aps they are out of a book,” suggested Mr. Hunt. “There did use to be a book about letter-writin’ when I was a young chap; but what it wanted to say was never same as what I wanted to say, and my mother—poor soul! couldn’t spell the long words, so I did give up using it. But since ye haven’t seen either of these two young folks for so long, Mrs. Melmouth, why not ax ’em both to come and stop wi’ ye, an’ see which ye do like the best? You’d soon find out then what they was both made on, an’ I’d pick out the one as did please ye most to leave the stockin’ to.”
“Well, there, that’s a notion,” said Becky reflectively. “I mid do that, I mid very well do that. Easter week, Simon mid very well get a holiday—an’ Rosy—I mid ask her mother to spare her to me at the same time.”
“Do!” said Farmer Hunt encouragingly. “I’ll reckon ye’ll find ’tis a very good notion.”
“I reckon I will—and thank you, Farmer, for puttin’ it into my mind. There, I should never ha’ thought on’t.”
“Two heads is better than one, ye see,” said Mr. Hunt.
And then he locked up the stocking again, handed Mrs. Melmouth her basket, and betook himself to his midday meal with the comfortable sensation which follows on a good-natured act that has cost nothing.
Mrs. Melmouth left the house and trudged homewards, revolving the new idea in her mind. Simon could have the back bedroom, and Rosy could sleep with her; ’twas a very good notion to have ’em both together; a man always gave a deal o’ trouble in a house, and Rosy could help a bit. Not but what Simon must make himself useful too. His aunt privately resolved to hold over the setting of the potatoes until he came; the bit o’ work he might do then would go a good way towards his keep, reflected the thrifty soul.
With much thought and care she penned her invitations that afternoon; they were brief and to the point, intimating in each case the writer’s wish to become better acquainted with the young relative in question.
Rosy’s answer came by return of post, written in a beautiful, round, clear hand which did credit to her schooling, and accepting with rapture. Simon’s reply did not come to hand for two or three days. It was ill-spelt and ill-written on a somewhat dirty piece of ruled paper, which looked as if it had been torn off the bottom of a bill:—