His uncle shook his ’ead agin. “She didn’t want no asking,” he ses, speaking very slow and mournful. “I just ’appened to put my arm round her waist by accident one day and the thing was done.” “Accident? How could you do it by accident?” ses Alf, firing up. “How can I tell you that?” ses George Hatchard. “If I’d known ’ow, it wouldn’t ’ave been an accident, would it?” “Don’t you want to marry her?” ses Alf, at last. “You needn’t marry ’er if you don’t want to.” George Hatchard looked at ’im and sniffed. “When you know her as well as I do you won’t talk so foolish,” he ses. “We’d better go down now, else she’ll think we’ve been talking about ’er.” They went downstairs and ’ad tea together, and young Alf soon see the truth of his uncle’s remarks. Mrs. Pearce—that was the ’ousekeeper’s name—called his uncle “dear” every time she spoke to ’im, and arter tea she sat on the sofa side by side with ’im and held his ’and. Alf lay awake arf that night thinking things over and ’ow to get Mrs. Pearce out of the house, and he woke up next morning with it still on ’is mind. Every time he got ’is uncle alone he spoke to ’im about it, and told ’im to pack Mrs. Pearce off with a month’s wages, but George Hatchard wouldn’t listen to ’im. “She’d ’ave me up for breach of promise and ruin me,” he ses. “She reads the paper to me every Sunday arternoon, mostly breach of promise cases, and she’d ’ave me up for it as soon as look at me. She’s got ’eaps and ’eaps of love-letters o’ mine.” “Love-letters!” ses Alf, staring. “Love-letters when you live in the same house!” “She started it,” ses his uncle; “she pushed one under my door one morning, and I ’ad to answer it. She wouldn’t come down and get my breakfast till I did. I have to send her one every morning.” “Do you sign ’em with your own name?” ses Alf, arter thinking a bit. “No,” ses ’is uncle, turning red. “Wot do you sign ’em, then?” ses Alf. “Never you mind,” ses his uncle, turning redder. “It’s my handwriting, and that’s good enough for her. I did try writing backwards, but I only did it once. I wouldn’t do it agin for fifty pounds. You ought to ha’ heard ’er.” “If ’er fust husband was alive she couldn’t marry you,” ses Alf, very slow and thoughtful. “No,” ses his uncle, nasty-like; “and if I was an old woman she couldn’t marry me. You know as well as I do that he went down with the _Evening Star_ fifteen years ago.” “So far as she knows,” ses Alf; “but there was four of them saved, so why not five? Mightn’t ’e have floated away on a spar or something and been picked up? Can’t you dream it three nights running, and tell ’er that you feel certain sure he’s alive?” “If I dreamt it fifty times it wouldn’t make any difference,” ses George Hatchard. “Here! wot are you up to? ’Ave you gone mad, or wot? You poke me in the ribs like that agin if you dare.” “Her fust ’usband’s alive,” ses Alf, smiling at ’im. “_Wot?_” ses his uncle.