“I will. It’s for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to know on’t. And you’re to have it again all safe when done with.” “Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it?” “I think I can. I ought to, anyhow. But she can’t know anythink in the letter now, Mr Weir.” “I know that; but Marshmallows is a talkin’ place. And poor Kate ain’t right out o’ hearin’ yet.—You’ll come and see her buried to-morrow, won’t ye, Old Rogers?” “I will, Thomas. You’ve had a troubled life, but thank God the sun came out a bit before she died.” “That’s true, Rogers. It’s all right, I do think, though I grumbled long and sore. But Jane mustn’t speak of that letter.” “No. That she shan’t.” “I’ll tell you some day what’s in it. But I can’t bear to talk about it yet.” And so they parted. I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my dead out of my sight or to comfort my living the next Sunday. I got help from Addicehead, however, and the dead bodies were laid aside in the ancient wardrobe of the tomb. They were both buried by my vestry-door, Catherine where I had found young Tom lying, namely, in the grave of her mother, and old Mrs Tomkins on the other side of the path. On Sunday, Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and she carried it to the Hall. It was not till she had to wait on her mistress before leaving her for the night that she found an opportunity of giving it into her own hands. Then when her bell rang, Jane went up to her room, and found her so pale and haggard that she was frightened. She had thrown herself back on the couch, with her hands lying by her sides, as if she cared for nothing in this world or out of it. But when Jane entered, she started and sat up, and tried to look like herself. Her face, however, was so pitiful, that honest-hearted Jane could not help crying, upon which the responsive sisterhood overcame the proud lady, and she cried too. Jane had all but forgotten the letter, of the import of which she had no idea, for her father had taken care to rouse no suspicions in her mind. But when she saw her cry, the longing to give her something, which comes to us all when we witness trouble—for giving seems to mean everything—brought to her mind the letter she had undertaken to deliver to her. Now she had no notion, as I have said, that the letter had anything to do with her present perplexity, but she hoped it might divert her thoughts for a moment, which is all that love at a distance can look for sometimes. “Here is a letter,” said Jane, “that Mr Weir the carpenter gave to my father to give to me to bring to you, miss.” “What is it about, Jane?” she asked listlessly. Then a sudden flash broke from her eyes, and she held out her hand eagerly to take it. She opened it and read it with changing colour, but when she had finished it, her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes glowing like fire. “The wretch,” she said, and threw the letter from her into the middle of the floor.