then she fell a-trembling and saying she durst not read it, for you never knew whether the first words might not break your heart.  The envelope was red where her lips had touched it, and yet she had an innocent look beneath the paint.  When he took the letter from her, though, she called him a low, vulgar fellow for presuming to address a lady.  She worked herself into a fury, and said far worse than that; a perfect guller of clarty language came pouring out of her.  He had heard women curse many a time without turning a hair, but he felt wae when she did it, for she just spoke it like a bairn that had been in ill company.

The smith’s wife, Suphy, who had joined the company, thought that men were easily taken in, especially smiths.  She offered, however, to convey the letter to Double Dykes.  She was anxious to see the inside of the Painted Lady’s house, and this would be a good opportunity.  She admitted that she had crawled to the east window of it before now, but that dour bairn of the Painted Lady’s had seen her head and whipped down the blind.

Unfortunate Suphy! she could not try the window this time, as it was broad daylight, and the Painted Lady took the letter from her at the door.  She returned crestfallen, and for an hour nothing happened.  The mole-catcher went off to the square, saying, despondently, that nothing would happen until he was round the corner.  No sooner had he rounded the corner than something did happen.

A girl who had left Double Dykes with a letter was walking quickly toward Monypenny.  She wore a white pinafore over a magenta frock, and no one could tell her whether she was seven or eight, for she was only the Painted Lady’s child.  Some boys, her natural enemies, were behind; they had just emerged from the Den, and she heard them before they saw her, and at once her little heart jumped and ran off with her.  But the halloo that told her she was discovered checked her running.  Her teeth went into her underlip; now her head was erect.  After her came the rabble with a rush, flinging stones that had no mark and epithets that hit.  Grizel disdained to look over her shoulder.  Little hunted child, where was succor to come from if she could not fight for herself?

Though under the torture she would not cry out.  “What’s a father?” was their favorite jeer, because she had once innocently asked this question of a false friend.  One tried to snatch the letter from her, but she flashed him a look that sent him to the other side of the dyke, where, he said, did she think he was afraid of her?  Another strutted by her side, mimicking her in such diverting manner that presently the others had to pick him out of the ditch.  Thus Grizel moved onward defiantly until she reached Monypenny, where she tossed the letter in at the smithy door and immediately returned home.  It was the letter that had been sent to her mother, now sent back, because it was meant for the dead farmer after all.