“Let me read with you, Joscelyn,” cried Betty, her cheeks very bright; and drawing close together the two girls held the sheet between them and slackened their pace. But they were not left long to their privacy, for by the time they reached the Cheshire door a dozen neighbours were upon them.
“So, so, Joscelyn, be not running away with your tidings. Tell us what Clinton is doing in New York,” exclaimed Mistress Strudwick, who had come with the others to give the girl countenance, if so she should need it.
“Ay, do not be playing the selfish, but give us the news,” cried several voices.
“I am as ignorant as you of General Clinton’s doings,” the girl said, smiling at the first speaker; “for, as far as I have got, the letter is full of questions about somebody here at home.”
“Yes, a spying letter for information, no doubt,” sneered Amanda Bryce. “The courier said they were both from some one in New York. Who writes to you from Clinton’s army?”
“Eustace Singleton, a handsome lad whom you know right well, Mistress Bryce.”
“He sends you two letters by the same hand? Faith! he is an ardent correspondent.”
“Nay, this other letter is in a strange writing. I know not yet who hath sent it.”
“Break the wafer and read it to us.”
“I do not choose, Mistress Bryce, to give my letters to the public.”