We opened the envelopes when we got outside. There was a new Bank of England note for five pounds in each, fresh and crisp, straight from the bank. "Aw'st go to that prayer meeting," said Jim, "if aw nevver go to another. The Lord send we aren't Matthy Haley'd to death, that's all. But aw'm thinking th' prayers 'll be fro' Mrs. Wrigley an' th' brass fro' Mr. Wrigley, an' wi' all respec' for th' fair sex, gi' me th' brass." In this innuendo, however, it turned out that Jim did less than justice to the mistress of Holly Grove; for not to be outdone in magnanimity by her lord and master she invited my father, and Ruth, and Miriam--I can imagine with some misgivings in her case--and Mother Haigh, and Jim, and myself to high tea at Holly Grove. She accompanied the invitation to my reverend sire by an intimation that she would be much obliged if he would conduct a service in Wrigley Mill itself, for she was of opinion, she added, that, though tea drinkings and such like festivities might occasionally be conceded to the frailties of the flesh, such a crisis as had now been reached in the fortunes of Jim and myself were better marked by prayer if not by fasting. In this observation I can imagine my father wholeheartedly concurring, though I doubt his acquiescence when Mrs. Wrigley went on to deplore that the pastor of Pole Moor had wedded himself to the tenets of hyper-Calvinism, she herself finding, she averred, that doctrine but as dry ashes compared with the comforting and inspiring teaching of the sainted John Wesley. The invitations to Mary Haigh, and Jim, and myself were not conveyed by word of mouth, as they might easily and at no cost have been, but reached us on separate and individual missives, at Mary's house in Wrigley Mill Fold, by the Royal Mail. Never before in our lives had any one of us three residents in Mary's humble cottage received a letter so transmitted, and each one of us twisted and turned the document about before mustering courage to break the wafers securing the letters. "Whativver in the name o' goodness is this?" exclaimed Mary. "Here, Abe, this'll be for yo', though, to be sewer, th' postman swore it were for me. Aw weren't for takkin' it, but he'd noan tak' it back. Aw'n noan oppened it, catch me at it. Aw'n more sense nor that. Aw nivver knew anyone 'at aw knew ha' a letter bi post but Jane Stewart, an' that wer' to say their Moll 'ud run away wi' a sojer. There's bad luck i' them innercent looikin' bits o' papper. Aw feel it i' mi bones. When folk han onny gooid news to tell they bring it theirsen." "Weel, here goes," said Jim, opening his letter with the air of one leading' a forlorn hope, "let's be knowing th' warst on it. Read it out, Abe, unless bi onny chance it's fro' your Ruth, i' which case aw'll just off to Pole Moor an' ax her to read it for me hersen."