"Dear Mr. Jones,—I'm very sorry about the brooch; perhaps you could get me something else. Don't you ever speak to Stiggins—I shouldn't. The raisens are gritty; perhaps you droped them. Do pay out that Mother Butter. She told Emma the other day I was a little minx. Couldn't you steal her cat? So no more at present from yours ever, Rose B. P.S.—You ought to do some dictation."
And then came the last.
"Dear Mr. Stiggins,—The brooch is beautiful; I've got it in my frock now, but daredn't go down in it for fear of Emma. I wonder you could ever mention Jones minor to me. Why do you speak to him? I don't. I like jam, apricot especially. The lessons are worse than ever, and I wish German was buried. Emma's going to have me put into linear drawing, or some such horrid name, so I mean to break all the pencils. Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.—I'd tell you of something I heard from Jessie Gall, only I'm afraid Emma will be up."
These various missives were directed to the gentlemen, each of them receiving the title of "esquire," and Miss Rose locked up her treasures, the brooch included. A little cousin of hers who was in the junior class, and ran in at will, was made the messenger on either side; otherwise the young men might have found it difficult to convey their offerings to the shrine.
A few days passed. One dark evening Mrs. Butter was in her kitchen, making toast for her not very welcome lodger-guest, who had descended from his room of concealment to talk to her and enjoy the warmth, when there came a sudden and imperious knocking at the casement. Down went the toasting-fork, and Tom Brabazon sprang from the fire into a dark corner.
"Not there, Mr. Tom," she whispered. "Better go upstairs again; it's safest."
One fear only was in the mind of both of them—that this peremptory summons must mean mischief to the fugitive hiding from the law. Mrs. Butter, when he had escaped, drew the heavy red curtain from before the window, and looked out. She expected to see some officers of justice there, or something as formidable; her heart rose to her month; he was her old master's son, with all his faults and sins, and she would have shielded him with her life.
"Don't open the door on any account," softly cried Tom Brabazon, from the stairs.
Between the light inside and the darkness out, combined with her own flurry, Mrs. Butter could see absolutely nothing. A form in a hat, as of a short, stout man, at last made itself dimly visible to her, but he seemed to be standing with his back to the window; at least, she could discern no features.
"What do you please to want, sir?" she called out, deeming it well to be civil.