"Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself afterwards," said the pretty housemaid.
"Stop a minit," replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing here and there, to reflect, as he did so. "You've hit it. The gen'l'm'n as wrote it wos a tellin' all about the misfortun' in a proper vay, and then my father comes a lookin' over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin' his oar in. That's just the wery sort o' thing he'd do. You're right, Mary, my dear."
Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up:
"And so the poor creatur's dead! I'm sorry for it. She warn't a bad-disposed 'ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I'm wery sorry for it."
Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.
"Hows'ever," said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, "it wos to be—and wos, as the old lady said arter she'd married the footman. Can't be helped now, can it, Mary?"
Mary shook her head, and sighed too.
"I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence," said Sam. Mary sighed again. The letter was so very affecting.
"Good bye!" said Sam.
"Good bye," rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.
"Well, shake hands, won't you?" said Sam.
The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid's, was a very small one, and rose to go.
"I shan't be wery long avay," said Sam.
"You're always away," said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss in the air. "You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again."
