Isaac, crimson in the face, was absorbed in the mental struggle, but presently perceived with a start that her pen had stopped moving.
‘Have ’ee got Say? Well, Your uncle Isaac do say—as I hope you’ll change your mind—’
‘Had n’t I better put he hopes?’ said the secretary.
The farmer came out of his brown study, and looked up at her inquiringly:
‘Who’s he?’
‘Why you, of course. If I say, “Your uncle Isaac,” I ought to go on in the same way, “He says.” If I say “I” it will look as if I were speaking of myself—as if it were I who wished he would change his mind.’
‘Well, and don’t ’ee wish it?’ asked Isaac sharply, but reproachfully too.
Rosalie bent her head over the paper, and answered hurriedly:
‘I? Oh, of course, of course; but it would not do for me to tell him so—it would be too much of a liberty.’
‘Lard, no, my dear. Richard would n’t think it such. But there, I be dathered with so much talk—you must n’t cut in again, Mrs. F.—’t is terrible hard work writin’ letters, and if ye go for to speak to I in the middle I’ll be all mixed up. Let me tell ’ee my own way, d’ ye see?—Richard knows my ways, and he’ll understand fast enough. Now, let me see:—“Your uncle Isaac wishes for to say as I hope ye’ll change your mind and come back. Mrs. F. is a-writin’ this for I, and she wishes for to say ’t is Uncle Isaac as wants ’ee back”—that’ll make it all right, d’ ye see?’ he continued, dropping the high unnatural tone which seemed essential to dictation, and adopting a confidential one—‘now he can’t go for to make no mistakes. Have ’ee wrote that?’