‘Bithey used always to write to him for you, didn’t she?’ said Rosalie, catching at the last straw. ‘Perhaps it would have more effect if she wrote.’ ‘Nay now, my dear, if ye ’d be so obligin’, I ’d take it very kind o’ you to do it. It d’ take Bithey very near three days to write a letter—I ’d be very much obliged to ’ee, my dear,’ he repeated persuasively. Thus adjured she had no resource but to comply, and with a beating heart and throbbing brain she set about her preparations. Going to the window, she drew up the blind a little way, and then, collecting pen, ink, and paper, sat down opposite Isaac at the table. When she had thus inaugurated proceedings Isaac might have been observed to gather himself up, concentrating, as it were, all his forces in preparation to the effort of composition. Having dipped her pen in the ink, Rosalie looked inquiringly at him. ‘How do you wish me to begin?’ she said. ‘Bithey do al’ays start off wi’ “My dear Nevvy,”’ responded Isaac in a husky tone, as though he were speaking from beneath a blanket, which evidently resulted from the mighty constraint he was putting upon himself. ‘_My dear Nephew_,’ wrote Rosalie, and then she raised her eyes again. The farmer cleared his throat, drew a long breath, and continued slowly, and with apparently immense difficulty: ‘_Your uncle Isaac do say_—’ ‘Say,’ repeated Rosalie, when she had written the last word. Isaac, crimson in the face, was absorbed in the mental struggle, but presently perceived with a start that her pen had stopped moving. ‘Have ’ee got _Say_? Well, _Your uncle Isaac do say_—_as I hope you’ll change your mind_—’ ‘Had n’t I better put _he_ hopes?’ said the secretary. The farmer came out of his brown study, and looked up at her inquiringly: ‘Who’s he?’ ‘Why you, of course. If I say, “Your uncle Isaac,” I ought to go on in the same way, “He says.” If I say “I” it will look as if I were speaking of myself—as if it were _I_ who wished he would change his mind.’ ‘Well, and don’t ’ee wish it?’ asked Isaac sharply, but reproachfully too. Rosalie bent her head over the paper, and answered hurriedly: ‘I? Oh, of course, of course; but it would not do for me to tell him so—it would be too much of a liberty.’