that's different!—The big, good Alfred!—did you ever hear such Tommy-rot in your life?—Go on—what does she say at the end?”      

       “Er—' We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all send many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Elise.'”      

       There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with her head dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her face, and her eyes flashed.     

       “Oh, but I call it beastly, I call it mean, to take a girl in like that.”      

       “Nay,” I said. “Probably he hasn't taken her in at all. Do you think those French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she's a great deal more downy than he.”      

       “Oh, he's one of the biggest fools that ever walked,” she cried.     

       “There you are!” said I.     

       “But it's his child right enough,” she said.     

       “I don't think so,” said I.     

       “I'm sure of it.”      

       “Oh well,” I said—“if you prefer to think that way.”      

       “What other reason has she for writing like that——?”      

       I went out into the road and looked at the cattle.     

       “Who is this driving the cows?” I said. She too came out.     

       “It's the boy from the next farm,” she said.     

       “Oh well,” said I, “those Belgian girls! You never know where their letters will end.—And after all, it's his affair—you needn't bother.”      

       “Oh——!” she cried, with rough scorn—“it's not me that bothers. But it's the nasty meanness of it. Me writing him such loving letters”—she put her hands before her face and laughed malevolently—“and sending him nice little cakes and bits I 

 Prev. P 7/17 next