“Salvation Army?”

“—­A Cook-general, in a very respectable ’ouse’old—­a publican’s, at the ‘Four Alls’ by Binton Bridges.  Me bein’ shy—­as you may ’ave noticed—­ I ’adn’t, as you might say, put it to ‘er; an’ likewise until the matter was settled I didn’ like to tell ’Enery.  But I interjuced ’im—­the same bein’ ‘er Sunday out; an’ afterwards, when he called ’er a monstrous fine girl, I felt as ‘appy as if he’d given me ten shillin’.  Which only proves,” Sam commented bitterly, “what I say in the next verse—­”

   “I’d rather be in prison
     Than in this earthly dwellin’,
    Where nothin’ is but it isn’—­
     An there ain’t no means of tellin’!”

“—­Which when, the night before he started, he comes to me an’ says that he an’ Mary ‘ave made a match of it, an’ would I mind keepin’ an eye on ‘er an’ writin’ regilar to say ‘ow she was gettin’ on, it fair knocked me out.”

“You never told ’im?”

“I didn’ like to.  To start with ‘e was always my fav’rite brother, an’ I couldn’ bear his startin’ in low sperits an’ South Africa such a distance off; beside which, I told mysel’, the girl must surely know ’er own mind.  So now you know,” concluded Sam, “what I means by the nex’ verse—­”

   “Stratford-on-Avon, Stratford-on-Avon—­
     My true love she is false;
    I ’d rather not go to Stratford-on-Avon
     If I could go anywheres else.”

“But you promised to keep an eye on her.”

“’Enery ’ears from me regilar,” said Sam evasively.

“If you don’t pay ’er no visits,” Tilda insisted, “the more you write the more you must be tellin’ lies; an’ that’s not fair to ’Enery.”

Sam considered this for a while, and ended by drawing a folded scrap of paper from his trouser-pocket.

“I don’t tell no more than can’t be ’elped, missie.  You just list’n to this.”

He read:—­

Dear Brother ‘Enery,—­This comes opin’ to find you well as it leaves me at Stratford.  M. sends her love, an’ you will be pleased to ‘ear she grows beautifuller every day an’ in character likewise.  It do seem to me this world is a better place for containin’ of her; an’ a man ought to be ’appy, dear ’Enery, when you can call ’er mine—­”

“That don’t seem right to me some’ow,” commented Tilda.

Sam scratched his head.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“’Pears to me it ought to be ‘yours’—­’When you can call her yours.’”

“I don’t like that neither, not altogether.  S’pose we scratch it out an’ say, ’A man ought to be ’appy when ’e can call ’er ‘isn’?  That what schoolmaster calls the third person.”

“There didn’ ought to be no third person about it,” said Tilda severely; “on’y ‘Enery an’ ’er.  Well, go on.”

“I can’t.  That’s so far as I’ve written up to the present.  It’s a rough copy, you understand; an’ at Stratford I allow to write it out fair an’ post it.”