I had received several letters from Bessie during the last month, which had rather surprised me, as she had grown very lazy at correspondence, as I have said before, and naturally, taking up her residence at Poplar Farm had not made her write oftener, excepting when she required the benefit of my experience with regard to the advantages of her new home. Her two last letters, however, had been written in a very unaccountable strain; and if I had not known she was comfortably and happily situated, I should have imagined it was just the reverse. ‘Another letter from Bessie!’ I exclaimed, as I broke the seal. ‘What on earth can she want now? I suppose she has found out somebody sells whiter flour than Watkins, or better tea than Amyott? I almost believe, Dick, she regrets having left Lincolnshire.’ ‘I don’t know why she should,’ replied Dick, as he commenced a raid upon the breakfast-table; ‘for, according to Maclean’s account, they lived in a perfect swamp there. But why can’t the woman look after her own flour and tea? Why is she to worry you about everything in this fashion?’ ‘Oh! I suppose she thinks, as I have no children, I cannot possibly have anything to do,’ I said, laughing; ‘for I heard her remark, with regard to Mrs Anderson, who is in the same plight as myself, that it must be quite a charity to give her any employment!’ ‘Like her impudence,’ growled Dick—(I don’t think Bessie is a favourite with my husband; perhaps I talked too much about her beforehand),—‘I should let her know to the contrary if I were you, Dolly. I believe, with all her fuss and bustle, that you do twice her work in half the time.’ ‘Ah! I have only _one_ baby to look after, you see, though he’s a big one,’ I said, as I gave his head a squeeze with my disengaged hand; ‘but goodness me, Dick, this letter is worse than the last even. Bessie seems really in low spirits now. She says that Mr Maclean’s business will take him away from home for a few nights next week, and she wants me to go over and spend them with her in—yes, she actually calls Poplar Farm—“this gloomy ramshackle old place.”’ ‘It’s old enough,’ said Dick, ‘and all the better for it; but it’s not “ramshackle.” Better walls and roof were never built than those of Poplar Farm. It stands as steady as the gaol.’ ‘But about my going to her, Dick—can you spare me?’ ‘Can I spare you!’ repeated my husband in that tone of voice that, after ten years’ marriage, has still the power to make my heart beat faster. ‘Of course I can! I could spare you for good and all, if someone would only be obliging enough to take you off my hands; but there’s no such luck in store for me. Only mind the days don’t stretch themselves into weeks, sweetheart!’ ‘Into weeks!’ I replied, indignantly. ‘Have I ever stayed weeks away from you yet, Dick? I’m not even sure that I shall go at all.’