“It is all right,” she said, as soon as the people gathered in the evening. “Your cottages will be plainly furnished for you, and you will pay for the furniture, and add to it afterwards. And, oh! it is a most lovely place to which you are going. The sea is like silver and the woods are like Paradise—ah, not such a Paradise as you know here! Now, I am going to take holiday for a week; you will grant me that, will you not?” “Oh, yes, but mind you don’t stop longer than your time!” “No, I will not. And now I must say good-bye, for I shall be off before any one is up in the morning. I must make the most of my time, you know; a week is not long.” “She looks mighty glad about it,” said one to another, as soon as she turned to go to her house. “Yes, she does that. I think it’s right what they say; and she ain’t really no Basket Woman!” “Not she! She’s a lady, if ever there was one, and that I’ve said all along.” Before she could close her door a man presented himself. “I want to send to my wife, ma’am,” he said. “I’m going to send her some money, and tell her to get ready to go with me to this new place; but it stands to sense as I don’t want all the neighbourhood, so to speak, to know my affairs; and if so be as you’re too busy to help me, I don’t rightly see what’s to be done.” “What do you want me to do?” The manner of the speaker was patient and sweet as ever, and the tumult in her own heart was made to subside as she rendered the service which the man required. “Well, I want a letter to go with the money, and I can’t write.” “Oh, I see. Here is some paper. Now tell me what you wish to say, and I will write it. First, take a seat, and make yourself comfortable. Now, are you ready? Tell me how to begin, then.” “My dear wife.” “Yes.” “I write these few lines to you, hoping to find you quite well, as it leaves me at present; thank God for it.” “Yes.” “I’ve had the skyattiker very bad, indeed, lately——” “The what?” “Sky-attic-ker!” “Oh! ah! yes; sciatica. Thank you; go on.” “The skyattiker all down one side; but it is better now, through a Basket Woman as give me some Holloway’s ointment. Beg pardon, ma’am.” “Not at all! Basket Woman—ointment—yes; what next, please?” “I hope the children are all right, bless their little hearts.” “Yes.” “I’ve got some news for you.” “Yes?” “Me and my mates are going out of town to live and to work, and I want you to join me.” “Yes?” “So get things ship-shape with the post-office order what I send, and be ready to come to me as soon as I send for you.” “What next?” “So no more at present from your affectionate husband, John Sturman.” “Affectionate husband, John Sturman. There it is, then,” and the writer proceeded to blot the page and fold the sheet. But the man looked very dissatisfied. “Stop a minute,” he said; “you had better put at the end of the letter: ‘P.S.—Excuse bad writing and bad spelling.’”