“No, thank you, papa; I have no appetite.”
“No appetite! nonsense!” and Mr. Barbary put a slice of ham on her plate. “Do you feel inclined for a walk as far as Church Leet this morning, Edgar?”
“I don’t mind,” said Mr. Reste. “About three miles, is it not?”
“Three miles across the fields as straight as the crow flies. I want to see a man who lives there. He—why, that’s Pettipher coming here!—the postman,” broke off Mr. Barbary. Letters were not written every day then, and very few found their way to Caramel Cottage.
Old Joan went to the door, and then came in. She was like a picture. A dark-blue linsey gown down to her ancles, neat black stockings and low, tied shoes, a check apron, and a bow of black ribbon perched in front behind the flapping border of her white muslin mob-cap.
“Pettipher says ’tis for the gentleman,” said Joan, putting the letter, a thick one, on the table by Mr. Reste.
“Why, it is from Amphlett!” he exclaimed, as he took it up, looking at the great sprawling writing. “What on earth has he got to say?”
Opening the letter, a roll of bank-notes fell out. Mr. Reste stared at them with intense curiosity.
“Is it your ship come in?” asked Katrine gaily: for he was wont to say he would do this or that when “his ship came home.”
“No, Katrine; not much chance of that. Let me see what he says.”