pen and ink and paper, and wrote back an ill-
spelt, but very implicit and stern negative.
Benjamin had had his portion; and if he could not
make it do, so much the worse for him; his
father had no more to give him. That was the
substance of the letter.

The letter was written, directed, and sealed,
and given to the country postman, returning
to Highminster after his day's distribution and
collection of letters, before Hester and Bessy
returned from market. It had been a pleasant
day of neighbourly meeting and sociable gossip:
prices had been high, and they were in good
spirits, only agreeably tired, and full of small
pieces of news. It was some time before they
found out how flatly all their talk fell on the
ears of the stay-at-home listener. But, when
they saw that his depression was caused by
something beyond their powers of accounting for by
any little every day cause, they urged him to tell
them what was the matter. His anger had not
gone off. It had rather increased by dwelling
upon it, and he spoke it out in good resolute
terms; and, long ere he had ended, the
two women were as sad, if not as angry, as
himself. Indeed, it was many days before either
feeling wore away in the minds of those who
entertained them. Bessy was the soonest
comforted, because she found a vent for her sorrow
in action; an action that was half as a kind of
compensation for many a sharp word that she had
spoken when her cousin had done anything to
displease her on his last visit, and half because
she believed that he never could have written
such a letter to his father unless his want of
money had been very pressing and real; though
how he could ever have wanted money so soon,
after such a heap of it had been given to him,
was more than she could justly say. Bessy got
out all her savings of little presents of sixpences
and shillings, ever since she had been a child, of
all the money she had gained for the eggs of two
hens, called her own, she put all together, and it
was above two pound — two pound five and seven-
pence, to speak accurately — and, leaving out the
penny as a nest egg for her future savings, she
put up the rest in a little parcel, and sent it, with
a note, to Benjamin's address in London:

"From a well-wisher.

"Dr BENJAMIN, — Unkle has lost 2 cows
and a vast of monney. He is a good deal
Angored, but more Troubled. So no more at
present. Hopeing this will finding you well As
it leaves us. Tho' lost to Site, To Memory
Dear. Repayment not kneeded.

                           "Your effectonet cousin,

                                        "ELIZABETH ROSE."

When this packet was once fairly sent off,
Bessy began to sing again over her work. She
never expected the mere form of acknowledgment;
indeed, she had such faith in the carrier
(who took parcels to York, whence they were
forwarded to London by coach), that she felt
sure that he would go on purpose to London to
deliver anything entrusted to him, if he had not
full confidence in the person, persons, coach and
horses, to whom he committed it. Therefore she
was not anxious that she did not hear of its
arrival. "Giving a thing to a man as one
knows," said she to herself, "is a vast different
to poking a thing through a hole into a box, th'
inside of which one has never clapped eyes on ;
and yet letters get safe some ways or another."
(This belief in the infallibility of the post was
destined a shock before long.) But she had a
secret yearning for Benjamin's thanks, and some
of the old words of love that she had been without
so long. Nay, she even thought—when,
day after day, week after week, passed by
without a line—that he might be winding up his
affairs in that weary, wasteful London, and
coming back to Nab-end to thank her in person.

One day—her aunt was up-stairs, inspecting
the summer's make of cheeses, her uncle out in
the fields—the postman brought a letter into
the kitchen to Bessy. A country postman, even
now, is not much pressed for time, and in those
days there were but few letters to distribute,
and they were only sent out from Highminster
once a week into the district in which Nab-end
was situated; and on those occasions the letter-
carrier usually paid morning calls on the various
people for whom he had letters. So, half
standing by the dresser, half sitting on it, he
began to rummage out his bag. "It's a queer-
like thing I've got for Nathan this time. I am
afraid it will bear ill news in it, for there's 'Dead
Letter Office' stamped on the top of it."

"Lord save us!" said Bessy, and sat down
on the nearest chair, as white as a sheet. In
an instant, however, she was up, and, snatching
the ominous letter out of the man's hands, she
pushed him before her out of the house, and said,
"Be off wi' thee, afore aunt comes down;" and
ran past him as hard as she could till she reached
the field where she expected to find her uncle.

"Uncle," said she, breathless, "what is it ?
Oh, uncle, speak! Is he dead?"

Nathan's hands trembled, and his eyes dazzled.
"Take it," he said, "and tell me what it is."

"It's a letter — it's from you to Benjamin, it
is and there's words printed with it, 'Not
known at the address given;' so they've sent it
back to the writer—that's you, uncle. Oh, it
gave me such a start, with them nasty words
printed outside!"

Nathan had taken the letter back into his own
hands, and was turning it over, while he strove
to understand what the quick-witted Bessy had
picked up at a glance. But he arrived at a
different conclusion.

"He's dead?" said he. "The lad is dead,
and he never knowed how as I were sorry I
wrote to 'un so sharp. My lad! my lad!"
Nathan sat down on the ground where he
stood, and covered his face with his old,
withered hands. The letter returned to him
was one which he had written with infinite
pains and at various times, to tell his child, in
kinder words and at greater length than he had
done before, the reasons why he could not send
him the money demanded. And now Benjamin