‘Lard, no, my dear. Richard would n’t think it such. But there, I be dathered with so much talk—you must n’t cut in again, Mrs. F.—’t is terrible hard work writin’ letters, and if ye go for to speak to I in the middle I’ll be all mixed up. Let me tell ’ee my own way, d’ ye see?—Richard knows my ways, and he’ll understand fast enough. Now, let me see:—“_Your uncle Isaac wishes for to say as I hope ye’ll change your mind and come back_. _Mrs. F. is a-writin’ this for I_, _and she wishes for to say ’t is Uncle Isaac as wants ’ee back_”—that’ll make it all right, d’ ye see?’ he continued, dropping the high unnatural tone which seemed essential to dictation, and adopting a confidential one—‘now he can’t go for to make no mistakes. Have ’ee wrote that?’ ‘No.—Oh, don’t make me write that, Mr. Sharpe—I don’t want him to think me unkind.’ Isaac clicked his tongue in desperation. ‘Lard ha’ mercy!’ he ejaculated, ‘this here letter ’ull never get wrote. Now, my dear, jist put down what I d’ tell ’ee—and don’t flurry me. When I do get flurried I can’t for the life o’ me think o’ nothin’. Jist be a-puttin’ o’ that down, and I’ll go on thinkin’, d’ ye see. It’ll come right—ye’ll find it’ll come right.’ Rosalie reluctantly set down the required sentence, and found at its conclusion that Isaac had already inflated himself in preparation for a further effort. ‘_Mrs. F. d’ wish ’ee to come back too_, _as is nat’ral_, _but she thinks it more becomin’ not to say so_.’ He fixed his eyes sternly upon her as he enunciated this statement, and in sheer desperation Rosalie set it down. ‘Now ye have n’t nothing to complain of, I don’t think,’ he remarked triumphantly. ‘Now we can get on. Well—what next?’ After deep reflection the following words came forth: ‘’_T is most onconvenient for ’ee to be a-leavin’ me at such short notice_. _I_—_wish_—_’ee_—_most_—_pertic’lar_—_to_—_come_—_back_—_to-week_. _We be a goin’ to cut the church meadow_, _and __every hand be wanted_. _I do feel a bit hurt in my feelin’s_’—Here Isaac paused to brush his coat sleeve across his eyes, and continued brokenly—‘_hurt in my feelin’s to think as you have a-left your old uncle like that_. ’T war n’t well done o’ him,’ he muttered, parenthetically, ‘nay, I can’t say as it were well done o’ Richard.’ He wiped his eyes again, sniffed, drew an immense breath, and started off afresh: ‘_Like that_. _I do think ye mid ha’ said a word_, _but I will not find fault no more_, _but jist ax ye to come straight back_—_an’ all will be forgive and forgot_. Now I think, Mrs. F., we mid finish, ye mid jist write my name and I’ll put my mark to it.’ He heaved a deep sigh of relief, wiped his brow, and sat gazing at her as she appended his signature to the page. ‘That be my name, be it?’ he inquired. ‘It do look very pretty wrote out so nice and small. ’Ees, I can see as this here’s my name. _I_—_S_—_A_—. You put _A_ twice, Mrs. F.’ ‘Yes, it should be written twice.’