A few days after the Brent goose was sent to the Pells, Fairy, on coming back from the Rectory at four o’clock, found she had left one of her books behind her, and as Charlie was not to be found, being in all probability at the Pells, paying an afternoon visit on his goose, Fairy with some difficulty persuaded Mrs. Shelley to let her go back to the Rectory alone, declaring she would be home again before dark.
She reached the Rectory safely, got her book, and was just passing the Winter-bourne, about ten minutes’ walk from the shepherd’s house, when, rather to her annoyance, Dame Hursey suddenly appeared from a by-lane and stopped her.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Hursey; I must not stop, it is getting so dark; mother will be frightened,” said Fairy, trying to pass the old woman, mindful of her promise to Jack, and secretly rather nervous at her encounter with the old wool-gatherer in this lonely spot, and in the gathering gloom of a November evening.
“Mother, indeed! You have a grander lady for your mother than Mrs. Shelley ever saw the like of, proud as she and her son Jack may be, I am thinking; but never mind that—one of these fine days Dame Hursey may tell you some news that will open those pretty eyes of yours, till they will look bigger than ever. Tell me, child, you can read writing, of course, can’t you?” said Dame Hursey, pulling aside her coarse apron, and fumbling among the folds of her tattered linsey skirt for her pocket.
“Yes, I can read and write too; but I really must be going home; it is getting so late,” said Fairy.
“Wait a minute, child; I am not going to keep you long. I want you to read a letter for me I had from my son this morning; maybe there is something in it I should not care for just everyone to know; I have been on the look out for John Shelley or gentleman Jack all day, but I have missed them somehow, and I can’t read writing myself. Ah! here it is at last,” producing a letter from the bottom of a very capacious pocket filled with some very incongruous articles—a few coppers, a piece of cheese, a thimble, a sock she was knitting, some corks, and various other odds and ends too numerous to mention.
Fairy took the letter, and by Dame Hursey’s instructions read it aloud. It ran as follows:—
“Dear Mother,
“I am just home from Australia, but I am going back there again at once. First, I want to see you, as I think you can tell me something I want to know, so will you meet me on the top of Mount Harry at three o’clock next Saturday afternoon? I shall be there, and, if you are living, I shall expect you. Till then I am your affectionate son,
“George.”