Winefred was roughly repulsed by the woman when she opened her box, but the old man put in a word: 'Nay, Bessie! Buy a trifle of the maid just to encourage her.' 'Are you David Nutall?' asked the girl. 'If I'm not mistaken,' he answered. Winefred drew the letter from her bosom, and put it into his hand. 'What?' he asked quickly. 'From the cap'n?' The young men at once brightened. 'Yes, from the captain.' The young men drew round the elder, their father. It was too dark at the hearth for them to read the letter, and the old man rose and went to the window. He studied the letter with knitted brows, but could not make much out of it. He called the lads to him. 'Ah, father,' said one, 'I can make out what is printed, but not fist-writing.' 'Come here,' said David, signing to the girl with the letter. 'Can you read what is in writing?' 'To be sure I can.' 'Written words, not printed?' 'I can.' 'Make out this, will you. We are all friends here. There――that line; I can get hold of the sense of the rest of it――or nigh, about.' Winefred read: 'At eleven o'clock on Thursday night, Heathfield Cross.' 'That will do,' said David Nutall, snatching the letter from her. 'Tell the cap'n we shall be there. No more. We shall be there. That is the answer. Take this.' The old man offered her two shillings. 'No,' said she, 'mother never takes alms. She earns.' 'Well, and you have earned this――as carrying a letter.' She held back. 'Mind, child,' said the old man, 'you hold your tongue about this bit of paper. A word might lose us all.' CHAPTER V DON'T Winefred went down the street in the direction of the curate's house. She encountered the reverend gentleman. He was somewhat shabby in dress, his boots were worn, and his neckcloth far from fresh starched. He had a depressed, crushed look. The girl went up to him confidently, and asked for Jack Rattenbury. 'My child,' answered the parson, 'he is not at my house, nor at his lodgings.' 'I have a pair of socks for him knitted by his father.' 'I can give them to him.' 'Thank you, a message goes with them. Where is he, sir?' 'I believe on the White Cliff.' 'What, wool-gathering? Is he doing that when supposed to be at his studies?' 'You have a pert tongue. He likes to watch the birds.' 'Thank you, sir. I will look for him there. It is all on my way back.' Winefred, instead of taking the short lane, now made the circuit of the down, ascending by the last house of the long street above the tiny bay, where were a flagstaff and benches, on which latter in almost all weathers fishermen and boys sat and yarned, disputed and smoked. She asked them about Jack, and learned that he was on the down. 'I have socks for him from his father,' she explained.