“No, ’twouldn’t do at all,” said Lizzie. “It ’ud put him in mind o’ the poor body, and he’d be that down-hearted he wouldn’t have no fancy for cwortin’ Hannah. Keep quiet, else I can’t read. There, the match be out now; ’tis your fault.” “Let the maid alone till she’ve a-read us what she’ve a-wrote,” growled somebody from the darkness, which seemed intense now that the little flickering light had vanished. Jem struck another match, and Lizzie continued, reading quickly— “‘You must find it terr’ble hard to manage without no missus; an’ I’m beginning to feel lonesome now I be gettin’ into years—’” “I d’ ’low that’ll sp’ile her chances!” exclaimed someone in the background. Lizzie twisted her head round angrily: “Nothin’ o’ the kind; Giles ’ud never look at nobody without it were a staid ’ooman. Second match is near out now. I won’t be bothered readin’ the letter to ye at all if ye keep on a-interruptin’ of I. Well— “‘I’ve been a-thinkin’ we might do worse nor make a match. I could do for you, and you’d be company for I. Besides’—here Lizzie’s voice quavered with laughter—‘I’ve took a mortal fancy to you, Giles, an’ think you the handsomest man ever I see. My heart have been yours two year an’ more. If you think well on the notion you might meet me to-morrow in the Little Wood at breakfast time.—Yours truly, “HANNAH PETHIN. “‘_P.S._—As I’m feelin’ a bit timid along o’ writin’ this here letter, I’d be obliged if ye’d kindly not mention it when we meets face to face.’” The match had burnt itself out a moment or two previously, but Lizzie remembered her composition sufficiently well to recite it without such aid, and was rewarded for the effort by shouts of approving laughter. “The very thing!” exclaimed one. “The last touch is the best!” cried another; while all united in declaring the letter to be “jist about clever.” “I’ll pop it under his door late to-night!” cried Jem. “So soon as I’m sure he be asleep. Now, let’s write his to her.” “You’d better do that,” said Lizzie. “The two writin’s mustn’t be the same, an’ she’d know my hand along o’ my makin’ out the milk bills.” “Hold the match, then, somebody,” cried Jem. “Here, ’Ector, catch hold; an’ mind ye keep it studdy. Give me the pen, Liz.” He took up his position at the flat stone, and was so long in squaring his elbows, arranging the pen in his clumsy fingers, and thrusting his tongue into his cheek—a necessary preliminary to rustic letter writing—that Hector announced that the match was burning him, before he had begun work in earnest. “Hold hard a minute!” cried another man. “Best be thinkin’ out what you want to say afore we lights another. It comes terr’ble expensive on matches, an’ it’s enough to put anybody off to have to start to light one in the middle of a line.” “True, true!” agreed the others. Lizzie, flushed with her recent triumph, again took the lead— “‘DEAR HANNAH—’”