“Well, now He has,” said Jinny. “You’ll have Will as well as Maria,” and plucking out a hairpin she inserted it to rip open the loose wafer-closed envelope. “Stop!” cried Martha. “Suppose it’s bad news.” “Nonsense, Mrs. Flynt! Look how firm the writing is.” “Firm—yes, he always was firm—even before he drove off with the cart. Don’t you remember that night—no, ’twas before your grandfather fetched you to these parts—he wasn’t seven, but that pig-headed he sulked in the wood all night—roosted up a tree like a bird, and never a move or a word when we came halloaing with torches!” “Well, he’s not hiding now, for the postmark’s London and——” “No, don’t open it yet, Jinny—suppose he should be married like Christopher!” Jinny laughed uneasily. “Two black daughters-in-law aren’t very likely. Much more likely she’ll be blonde.” “No, he can’t be married,” said Martha on reflection. “He never could abide girls. I don’t mean you, dearie; you scarcely had your second teeth, had you?” Jinny began to rip the envelope. “We shall soon see.” But Martha snatched away the letter again. “I’m sure you’ll spoil your pretty eyes,” she persisted. “Day-stars, Will called ’em once.” Jinny laughed still more uneasily. “Then I ought to be able to read by ’em. But I’ll light my night-star.” And she moved towards the cart-lamp. “It isn’t your lighting-up time yet, is it? You don’t want to be wasteful.” “Well, come in and light me a candle a moment.” “You seem in a great hurry to read it!” said Martha fretfully. “Me?” Jinny flushed furiously. “I thought you’d want to hear what he says.” “Don’t I know what he says? That he is in England again and coming to see his old mother? Isn’t that enough for one night?” “It’s a great deal, certainly. But suppose—he wants something.” “Ah, that’s true!” Martha was visibly perplexed. She did not herself understand the suddenly awakened jealous instinct that resented Jinny’s superior acquaintance with Will’s handwriting, that was subconsciously urging her to hug this letter to her bosom and not share its sacred contents with a girl she at last—especially after Bundock’s recent innuendo—realized as grown-up, and who seemed, moreover, to be claiming a co-proprietorship. And so it was difficult for her to frame an objection satisfactory to her conscious intelligence. But the letter was now in her possession, and that was a strong asset for her subconsciousness. “’Tis a pity to _tear_ open such a beautiful envelope,” she said. “You have your cup o’ tea. I’ll steam it over the kettle.” “I’m afraid I haven’t time for tea, especially having to take Mr. Skindle a bit back,” said Jinny, almost as mystified as Martha herself. “I’m late already, and Gran’fer will be roaring for his supper. I must read it now or never.” “If it was anything unpleasant,” wavered Martha, “Flynt would be very upset. And after sitting up all night with Maria—no, he must have a good sleep—better put it off till the morning.”