“Put it on the table,” she said to the servant girl; her hands just then were too floury to take it, but she looked at it as it lay on the table beside her.  She did not recognise the writing, though she saw at once that it was not that of a Dutchman.  “Who brought it?” she asked, beginning to clean her hands.

The servant could not say, but from her description Julia gathered that it must have been a special messenger of some sort.  On hearing this, she did not trouble to clean her hands any more, but opened the letter at once, making floury finger-prints upon it.

     “DEAR MISS POLKINGTON, (it ran),

“There is one subject I did not mention to you yesterday; you might perhaps have thought it too serious for holiday consideration; nevertheless, it is a question that I feel I must ask before I leave Holland.  Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?  I know there is rather a difference in years between us, but if you can overlook the discrepancy, and consent, you will give me the utmost satisfaction.  I honestly believe it will make for the happiness of us both; I have a feeling that we were meant to continue our ‘excursion’ together.

“Very sincerely yours,

“H.  F. RAWSON-CLEW.”

So Julia read, and sat down suddenly on the flour barrel.  She turned to the beginning of the letter and read it through again, and when she looked up her eyes were shining with admiration.  “I am glad!” she said aloud, but in English, “I am glad he has done it!  It’s splendid, splendid!  I never thought of it—­but then I don’t believe I knew what a real gentleman was before!”

The maidservant started at her curiously; she could not understand a word, but she saw that the letter gave pleasure, for which she was glad; she liked Julia, and was very sorry she was going in disgrace; she herself had occasional lapses from rectitude and so consequently had a fellow feeling.

“You have a good letter?” she asked.

“Very good,” Julia said; “but we must get on with the cooking; I will answer it by and by.”

Julia put it in her pocket after another glance, purring to herself in English, “It is so well done, too,” she said; “never a word of to-day, only of yesterday—­yesterday!” and she laughed softly.

There is no doubt about it, if Julia had got to receive a death sentence she would have liked it to be well given; it is quite possible, had she lived at the time, she would have been one of those who objected to the indignity of riding in the tumbrils quite as much as to the guillotine at the end of the ride.

She finished the preparations for dinner, got her pots and pans all nicely simmering and her oven at the right heat; then, giving some necessary directions, she left the servant to watch the cooking and went up to her own room.  There she at once proceeded to answer the letter—­

     “DEAR MR. RAWSON-CLEW, (she wrote),