CHAPTER XXVII.
A letter from home.
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “who this letter be for; it have been ’ere now nigh upon a week, and I’m tired o’ seein’ it.”
Miss Prettyface took the letter in her hand and began, as best she could, for the twentieth time to endeavour to decipher the address. It was very much blotted and besmeared, and presented a very remarkable specimen of caligraphy. The most legible word on it seemed “Gouse.”
“There’s nobody here of that name,” said the young lady. “Do you know anybody, Mr. Bumpkin, of the name of Gouse?”
“Devil a bit,” said he, taking the letter in his hands, and turning it over as if it had been a skittle-ball.
“The postman said it belonged here,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “but I can’t make un out.”
“I can’t read the postmark,” said Miss Prettyface.
Mr. Bumpkin put on a large pair of glasses and examined the envelope with great care.
“I think you’ve got un upside down,” said Mrs. Oldtimes.