‘Bithey used always to write to him for you, didn’t she?’ said Rosalie, catching at the last straw. ‘Perhaps it would have more effect if she wrote.’
‘Nay now, my dear, if ye ’d be so obligin’, I ’d take it very kind o’ you to do it. It d’ take Bithey very near three days to write a letter—I ’d be very much obliged to ’ee, my dear,’ he repeated persuasively.
Thus adjured she had no resource but to comply, and with a beating heart and throbbing brain she set about her preparations. Going to the window, she drew up the blind a little way, and then, collecting pen, ink, and paper, sat down opposite Isaac at the table. When she had thus inaugurated proceedings Isaac might have been observed to gather himself up, concentrating, as it were, all his forces in preparation to the effort of composition.
Having dipped her pen in the ink, Rosalie looked inquiringly at him.
‘How do you wish me to begin?’ she said.
‘Bithey do al’ays start off wi’ “My dear Nevvy,”’ responded Isaac in a husky tone, as though he were speaking from beneath a blanket, which evidently resulted from the mighty constraint he was putting upon himself.
‘My dear Nephew,’ wrote Rosalie, and then she raised her eyes again.
The farmer cleared his throat, drew a long breath, and continued slowly, and with apparently immense difficulty:
‘Your uncle Isaac do say—’
‘Say,’ repeated Rosalie, when she had written the last word.