And now my dear I really am a going to tell you about my Legacy if you’re inclined to favour me with your attention, and I did fully intend to have come straight to it only one thing does so bring up another.  It was the month of June and the day before Midsummer Day when my girl Winifred Madgers—­she was what is termed a Plymouth Sister, and the Plymouth Brother that made away with her was quite right, for a tidier young woman for a wife never came into a house and afterwards called with the beautifullest Plymouth Twins—­it was the day before Midsummer Day when Winifred Madgers comes and says to me “A gentleman from the Consul’s wishes particular to speak to Mrs. Lirriper.”  If you’ll believe me my dear the Consols at the bank where I have a little matter for Jemmy got into my head, and I says “Good gracious I hope he ain’t had any dreadful fall!” Says Winifred “He don’t look as if he had ma’am.”  And I says “Show him in.”

The gentleman came in dark and with his hair cropped what I should consider too close, and he says very polite “Madame Lirrwiper!” I says, “Yes sir.  Take a chair.”  “I come,” says he “frrwom the Frrwench Consul’s.”  So I saw at once that it wasn’t the Bank of England.  “We have rrweceived,” says the gentleman turning his r’s very curious and skilful, “frrwom the Mairrwie at Sens, a communication which I will have the honour to rrwead.  Madame Lirrwiper understands Frrwench?” “O dear no sir!” says I.  “Madame Lirriper don’t understand anything of the sort.”  “It matters not,” says the gentleman, “I will trrwanslate.”

With that my dear the gentleman after reading something about a Department and a Marie (which Lord forgive me I supposed till the Major came home was Mary, and never was I more puzzled than to think how that young woman came to have so much to do with it) translated a lot with the most obliging pains, and it came to this:—­That in the town of Sons in France an unknown Englishman lay a dying.  That he was speechless and without motion.  That in his lodging there was a gold watch and a purse containing such and such money and a trunk containing such and such clothes, but no passport and no papers, except that on his table was a pack of cards and that he had written in pencil on the back of the ace of hearts:  “To the authorities.  When I am dead, pray send what is left, as a last Legacy, to Mrs. Lirriper Eighty-one Norfolk Street Strand London.”  When the gentleman had explained all this, which seemed to be drawn up much more methodical than I should have given the French credit for, not at that time knowing the nation, he put the document into my hand.  And much the wiser I was for that you may be sure, except that it had the look of being made out upon grocery paper and was stamped all over with eagles.

“Does Madame Lirrwiper” says the gentleman “believe she rrwecognises her unfortunate compatrrwiot?”

You may imagine the flurry it put me into my dear to be talked to about my compatriots.