“Oh, mamma!” said he, “I never thought you would do that: how good you are! You couldn't ask Ruperta, could you? Just in a little postscript, you know.” Lady Bassett shook her head. “That would not be wise, my dear. Let me hook that fish for you, not frighten her away.” Great was the astonishment at Highmore when a blazing footman knocked at the door and handed Jessie the letter with assumed nonchalance, then stalked away, concealing with professional art his own astonishment at what he had done. It was no business of Jessie's to take letters into the drawing-room; she would have deposited any other letter on the hall table; but she brought this one in, and, standing at the door, exclaimed, “Here a letter fr' Huntercombe!” Richard Bassett, Mrs. Bassett, and Ruperta, all turned upon her with one accord. “From where?” “Fr' Huntercombe itsel'. Et isna for you, nor for you, missy. Et's for the mesterress.” She marched proudly up to Mrs. Bassett and laid the letter down on the table; then drew back a step or two, and, being Scotch, coolly waited to hear the contents. Richard Basset, being English, told her she need not stay. Mrs. Bassett cast a bewildered look at her husband and daughter, then opened the letter quietly; read it quietly; and, having read it, took out her handkerchief and began to cry quietly. Ruperta cried, “Oh, mamma!” and in a moment had one long arm round her mother's neck, while the other hand seized the letter, and she read it aloud, cheek to cheek; but, before she got to an end, her mother's tears infected her, and she must whimper too. “Here are a couple of geese,” said Richard Bassett. “Can't you write a civil reply to a civil letter without sniveling? I'll answer the letter for you.” “No!” said Mrs. Bassett. Richard was amazed: Ruperta ditto. The little woman had never dealt in “Noes,” least of all to her husband; and besides this was such a plump “No.” It came out of her mouth like a marble.