It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I forget not, from the time of Isopel’s departure, that, as I was seated on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my breakfast, I heard an unknown voice from the path above—­apparently that of a person descending—­exclaim, “Here’s a strange place to bring a letter to;” and presently an old woman, with a belt round her middle, to which was attached a leathern bag, made her appearance, and stood before me.

“Well, if I ever!” said she, as she looked about her.  “My good gentlewoman,” said I, “pray what may you please to want?” “Gentlewoman!” said the old dame, “please to want!—­well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate.  It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, we do not always get them.  What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?” “What’s the name on the letter?” said I, getting up and going to her.  “There is no name upon it,” said she, taking a letter out of her scrip and looking at it.  “It is directed to the young man in Mumpers’ Dingle.”  “Then it is for me, I make no doubt,” said I, stretching out my hand to take it.  “Please to pay me ninepence first,” said the old woman.  “However,” said she, after a moment’s thought, “civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, should meet with some return.  Here’s the letter, young man, and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not, I must pay the postage myself.”  “You are the postwoman, I suppose?” said I, as I took the letter.  “I am the postman’s mother,” said the old woman; “but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he is afraid to come himself.”  “You say the postage is ninepence,” said I, “here’s a shilling.”  “Well, I call that honourable,” said the old woman, taking the shilling and putting it into her pocket—­“here’s your change, young man,” said she, offering me threepence.  “Pray keep that for yourself,” said I; “you deserve it for your trouble.”  “Well, I call that genteel,” said the old woman; “and as one good turn deserves another, since you look as if you couldn’t read, I will read your letter for you.  Let’s see it; it’s from some young woman or other, I dare say.”  “Thank you,” said I, “but I can read.”  “All the better for you,” said the old woman; “your being able to read will frequently save you a penny, for that’s the charge I generally make for reading letters; though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I should have charged you nothing.  Well, if you can read, why don’t you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?” “I am in no hurry to open it,” said I, with a sigh.  The old woman looked at me for a moment—­“Well, young man,” said she, “there are some—­especially those who can read—­who don’t like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially when they come from young women.  Well, I won’t intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your letter.  I wish it may contain something pleasant.  God bless you,” and with these words she departed.