“Why are you so very anxious to know, Nanny?” he inquired.
“Sorra thing,” she replied, “but curiosity—a woman's curiosity, you know.”
“Well, Nanny, you know, or ought to know, that it would not be right in me to tell you who the letter is for, when Mr. Hycy did not think proper to do so.”
“True enough, sir,” she replied; “an I beg your pardon, Mr. Clinton, for asking you; indeed it was wrong in me to tell you who it came from even, bekaise Mr. Hycy told me not to let any one see it, only jist to slip it into the post-office unknownst, as I passed it; an' that was what made me wish to know who it was goin' to, since the thruth must be tould.”
Clinton in turn now felt his curiosity stimulated as to the contents of this mysterious epistle, and he resolved to watch, if possible, what effect the perusal of it might have on his uncle, otherwise he was never likely to hear a syllable that was contained in it, that worthy relative being, from official necessity, a most uncommunicative person in all his proceedings.
“I wonder,” observed Clinton, “that Mr. Hycy would send to any one a letter so slurred and blotted with ink as that is.”
“Ay, but he blotted it purposely himself,” replied Nanny, “and that too surprised me, and made me wish to know what he could mane by it.”
“Perhaps it's a love-letter, Nanny,” said Clinton, laughing.
“I would like to know who it is to, at any rate,” said the girl; “but since you won't, tell me, sir, I must try and not lose my rest about it. Good-bye, Mr. Clinton.”
“Good-bye, Nanny;” and so they started.