These, dear sister, are Mrs. Buckley's plannings. But they are not mine. She talks ever as though I had come to stay here for good and all. And so does Mr. Buckley. They would kill me with kindness. But I feel very guilty amid it all, for I know what they want can never be. They will never make a fine lady of me, nor make me false to Pole Moor and all Pole Moor means to me. I'm just wearying to doff these rich trappings and don my russet once more, and be just plain Miriam, your dear sister, and Abe's true love. And now, dear heart, for my good news. I have persuaded Mrs. Buckley to let me come to Pole Moor next week. I am to be driven to Greenfield--they would have sent the carriage all the way, but I would not have it. I vowed my limbs ached for a long stretch over the moors. So meet me, my Ruth, by the Church Inn at Saddleworth about three of the afternoon, and we'll be at dear Mother Haigh's for tea, and someone, I daresay, will be fain to company us to Pole Moor. Give my dear love and dutiful respects to your good father. Ever your friend and sister. MIRIAM. I cannot tell you how long this letter took in the reading. You who read it in fair print, and straightforward, can have no notion. But we had to battle with Miriam's handwriting, which, like all the women's I've ever seen, was none of the easiest to make out; though, to be sure, since it was a man--old Daddy, you may remember--who had taught her her pothooks, she wrote a bolder hand than is usual with women folk, not all slopes and angles and flourishes. But Ruth's reading of her much-prized letter was sorely interrupted by our comments as she read--Jim, I grieve to say, being the chief offender. When my sister came to that portion which told of the long glass that reflected Miriam's face and form, Jim's words there anent were like unto those of the comforters of Job: