And then, pressing the letter to her heart, she turned and hid her face upon the pillows, refusing to be comforted. Mrs. Frizzell went downstairs and sank into the elbow-chair. “Lard forgive me!” she said to herself over and over again. “Good Lard, forgive me! I can scarce think I wished en dead, but I did wish for en not to come back, and I did tell so many lies that they’ve a-come true to punish I. There, my child be a-breakin’ her heart, and ’tis me as has done it.” By-and-bye Mrs. Cross peered in again, anxious and curious. “What did make Susan take that bad turn, I wonder?” “Why,” returned Mrs. Frizzell, looking up with red eyes, but with an odd sense of returning self-respect—this time, at least, she was telling no untruth—“it be enough to upset her. She’ve a-had a letter from her husband, wrote afore he died: so lovin’. And it be all stained wi’ blood.” “Dear heart alive!” groaned the other sympathetically. “Poor Mr. Griggs! They took it off en after he were dead, I suppose?” Mrs. Frizzell’s face fell. It was hard, after all, to persevere in the path of rectitude. “’Ees,” she said faintly. “Leastways, the nurse as sent it on said he were almost gone when she took it off en.” “Ah-h-h!” groaned the neighbour again. “Well, we do know he be dead, Mrs. Frizzell, don’t we? seein’ as his name were in the paper, and all.” “Oh, ’ees,” agreed Mrs. Frizzell, still more falteringly. “And his blood was on the letter,” resumed Mrs. Cross, with a certain gruesome relish, though her eyes were full of tears. “Dear, now, I should like to see it. It ’ud be really summat to see, wouldn’t it?” “Ah, but my poor Susan, she won’t let nobody look at it,” returned the mother in quick alarm. “She’ve a-got it under her pillow, and she’ve a-got fast hold on’t.” “Poor young thing! Well, I can understand her feelings—p’r’aps some other day—” “Nay, don’t think it, Mrs. Cross—don’t look for’t! Says she to I, ‘Mother, you won’t never let no stranger set eyes on this here. ’Twas meant for nobody but me,’ says she, and I do mean to keep it for myself.’ . . . And there’s another,” lamented the poor woman almost in despair. “Oh, very well, mum; I’m sure I don’t want to put myself forrard where I bain’t wanted,” retorted Mrs. Cross in a tone of offended dignity. “But I thought I mid make so bold as to ax, seein’ as I’ve a-knowed your Susan since she were no bigger than her own blessed orphan child.” “Nay, now, no offence. I don’t suppose, Mrs. Cross, as Susan ’ull so much as let Father see it. There now, talkin’ of the baby, would you like to look at en? I’ll fetch en in a minute; he be comin’ on finely.” “Well, I haven’t seen en for two or three days—I couldn’t take much notice on en jist now when Susan seemed so bad,” returned Mrs. Cross, lingering in the hope of picking up a further crumb or two of information. “Ye don’t seem to take much notice on en yourself, my dear—I do scarcely ever see you nursin’ en.”