"There is only one thing he lacks," he said to himself, "he would be a man in a thousand, but he is too diffident." But, even in spite of his diffidence, he thought so highly of him that had he asked for four florins a week he would gladly have given it sooner than let him go away. So he said to himself, but Sandu did not dream of asking for much more than he had. All his life he had worked for the same wage. It is true that had he done as the others did, and drawn out money every Sunday, he might, perhaps, have felt it was hard to see Master Dinu paying out a great deal more to the others than to him, but he did not ask for his money. On one occasion only did he draw two florins from his pay, and that was because, on a certain Tuesday, his mother had sent greetings to him and had asked him if possible to send her a little help. Sandu ran off at once to the market-place to find Master Dinu to ask for all the money he was entitled to for his work, that he might send it to his mother. Master Dinu, not knowing what he wanted it for, nor how much he needed, asked whether two florins would be enough. "Yes," he said, and with the coins in his hand he went to the man from his village. He wrapped up the money and begged him to lose no time in giving it to his mother and in telling her how much he longed for her, and that, perhaps, she might come to him, for he was working for a good master, and up to now he had not been idle for a single day. A fortnight passed and he received no tidings of his mother. But on Tuesday, the day of the weekly fair, while he was spreading out the skins, the man came to tell him he had given the money and had brought a letter written by "Peter the Chinaman." Sandu took the letter and would have liked to open it, but he caught the mistress's eye and involuntarily thrust it into his breast. "Look at him," she cried, "we are longing to finish the work quickly, and he thinks only of reading lines from his sweetheart." "I have no sweetheart," replied Sandu gently. "Who writes to you then?" "My mother." "Your mother? She can't know how to use a pen. Did you ever hear such a lie----" "I do not lie." "Not lie? Hold your tongue! As if your mother knows how to write----" And she looked rather sulkily at Sandu, who moved on to the other pile of stretching-pegs. At this moment one of the workmen told her that the letter really was from his mother, but that it was written by a Chinaman in the village. "Then why didn't he tell me?" she cried. "Am I supposed to know everything?" Sandu turned round. "But can you read?" "Yes, mistress, I can." "It's a good thing you can." The mistress went away and the men were busy with their work till dinner-time.