George could hardly disguise the sudden look of fury in his face, but he hastily covered up the letter with his hands in such a manner as only to leave the first word on the page visible. There was a deeply cunning reason for this clever manœuvre. George held himself to be pretty “cute,” and he reckoned that, by only showing one word at a time, he could effectually prevent any attempt on Abel’s part to read the letter himself without giving its contents to George. Like many other cunning people, George overreached himself. The first word was beyond Abel’s powers, though he might possibly have satisfied George’s curiosity on one essential point, by deciphering a name or two farther on. But the clever George concluded that he had boasted beyond his ability, so he put the letter away. Abel tried hard at the one word which George exhibited, and gazed silently at it for some time with a puzzled face. “Spell it, mun, spell it!” cried the miller’s man, impatiently. It was a process which he had seen to succeed, when a long word had puzzled his teacher in the newspaper, before now. “M O E R, mower; D Y K, dik,” said Abel. But he looked none the wiser for the effort. “Mower dik! What be that?” said George, peering at the word. “Do’ee think it be Mower dik, Abel?” “I be sure,” said Abel. “Or do ’ee think ’tis ‘_My dear Dick_’?” suggested George, anxiously, and with a sort of triumph in his tone, as if that were quite what he expected. “No, no. ’Tis an O, Gearge, that second letter. Besides, twould be _My dear Gearge_ to thee, thou knows.” Again the look with which the miller’s man favored Abel was far from pleasant. But he controlled his voice to its ordinary drawl (always a little slower and more simple sounding, when he specially meant mischief). “So ’twould, Abel. So ’twould. What a vool I be, to be sure! But give it to I now. We’ll look at it another time, Abel.” “I be very sorry, Gearge,” said Abel, who had a consciousness that the miller’s man was ill-pleased in spite of his civility. “It be so long since I was at school, and it be such a queer word. Do ’ee think she can have spelt un wrong, Gearge?” “’Tis likely she have,” said George, regaining his composure. “Abel! Abel! Abel!” cried the mother from the dwelling-room. “Come to bed, child!” “Good-night, Gearge. I’m main sorry to be so stupid, Gearge,” said Abel, and off he ran. Mrs. Lake was walking up and down, rocking the little Jan in her arms, who was wailing fretfully. “I be puzzled to know what ails un,” said Mrs. Lake, in answer to Abel’s questions. “He be quite in a way to-night. But get thee to bed, Abel.”