Uncle Loveday was already at table when I descended.  But small was our pretence of eating.  Mrs. Busvargus, it is true, had lost no appetite through sorrow; but Mrs. Busvargus was accustomed to such scenes, and in her calling treated Death with no more to-do than she would a fresh customer at her husband’s inn.  Long attendance at death-beds seemed to have given that good woman a perennial youth, and certainly that day she seemed to have lost the years which I had gained.  Uncle Loveday made some faint display of heartiness; but it was the most transparent feigning.  He covered his defection by pressing huge helpings upon me, so that my plate was bidding fair to become a new Tower of Babel, when Mrs. Busvargus interposed and swept the meal away; after which she disappeared into the back kitchen to “wash up,” and was no more seen; but we heard loud splashings at intervals as if she had found a fountain, and were renewing her youth in it.

Left to ourselves, we sat silent for a while, during which Uncle Loveday refilled and lit his pipe and plunged again into thought, with his eyes fixed on the rafters.  Whether because his cogitations led to something, or the tobacco had soothed him sufficiently, he finally turned to me and asked—­

“Have you got that packet?”

I produced it.  He took his big red handkerchief from his pocket, spread it on the table, and began slowly to undo the strap.  Then after arranging apart the buckle, the letter, and the tin box, he inquired—­

“Was it like this when the man gave it to you?”

“No, the letter was separate.  I slipped it under the strap to keep it safe.”

“It seems to me,” said my uncle, adjusting his spectacles and unfolding the paper, “illegible, or almost so.  It has evidently been thoroughly soaked with salt water.  Come here and see if your young eyes can help me to decipher it.”

We bent together over the blurred handwriting.  The letter was evidently in a feminine hand; but the characters were rudely and inartistically formed, while every here and there a heavy down-stroke or flourish marred the beauty of the page.  Wherever such thick lines occurred the ink had run and formed an illegible smear.  Such as it was, with great difficulty, and after frequent trials, we spelt out the letter as follows:—­

                    “The Welc . . .  Home, Barbican, Plymo.” 
    “My Deerest Jack,—­This to hope it will find You quite well, as
     it leaves Me at present.  Also to say that I hope this voyage
      . . . new Leaf with Simon as Companny, who is a Good
     Friend, though, as you well know, I did not think . . . came
     courting me.  But it is for the best, and . . . liquor . . .
     which I pray to Heaven may begin happier Days.  Trade is very
     poor, and I do not know . . . little Jenny, who is getting on
     Famously with her Schooling.  She keaps the Books already,