"Did I? Did I? Oh, it was only _my_ joking, Dally. You're such a pretty gel, you don't want silk dresses and feathers." "No, I don't want 'em," said Dally sharply; "but men do. They like to see us dressed up. Squire Tom thinks I look a deal nicer when I've got my best frock on." "Did he say so, Dally--did he say so?" "Never you mind, gran'fa. Where's the money you promised me?" "Nay, I've thought better of it. You shall have it some day--when I'm dead and gone." "No, no, gran'fa, dear; I don't want you to die," whispered Dally, fondling him. "I want you to live a long time yet, and come and see me at the Hall." "Tchah! you'll never get to be there. It'll be Miss Leo." "Will it?" said Dally, with a toss of the head. "We shall see about that. You'll give me some money, won't you, gran'fa?" "Nay. You've never made them new shirts yet." "I've been so busy, gran'fa dear," cried the girl. "Why, I've been up to the Hall six times since I saw you last." "Up to Hall? Not alone?" "Yes, and alone. Why not?" said Dally saucily. "Besides, Miss Leo sent me." "More than once?" "Yes, gran'fa; often." "Ay, that's it. I told you so. She's a leddy, and she'll win that game." "Will she?" said Dally drily; "when she can't go up to see somebody, and sends me?" The old man drew the corners of his mouth a long way apart in a hideous grin, and then burst into a series of chuckles. "Why, Dally, my gel; you are a wicked one, and no mistake." "Oh, no, I'm not, gran'fa. I'm only fighting for myself; and you said you'd help me." "And so I will, my pet; but I can't spare no money." "Well, I don't know that I want it yet, gran'fa; but I want you to do something else." "Ay, ay. What is it?" said the old man eagerly. "Not buy anything?" "No, not buy anything," said Dally, diving her soft, round little arm down into her pocket, to reach which she had to raise one side of her dress. "I want you to write something, gran'fa." "Nay, I never write now. Write it yourself. What you want me to write for, after all the schooling you've had?" "Well, I have written something, gran'fa, but I want you to do it, too." Dally had fished out a large, common-looking Prayer Book, which opened easily in two places, from each of which she took an envelope, and laid upon the table. One was directed, and on being opened she took out a note. The other was blank, and with a folded sheet of paper therein. Dally was quite at home in the sexton's cottage, and going to the mantelpiece she took down a corked penny ink-bottle, and a pen from out of a little common vase, while, from their special place, she took the old man's spectacles. "Now, gran'fa," she said sharply, "I want you to write nicely, just what I've written there." "What for? what for?" he cried, taking up the note after adjusting his glasses. "To help me, gran'fa. You said you would." "Yes, I said I would," he grumbled. "I said I would."