“Dearest mother,—­I hope you are not fretting about me.  Dr. Amboyne promised to stop all that.  But do write, and say you are not fretting and fancying all manner of things at my cutting away so suddenly.  It was the doctor’s doing.  And, mother, I shall not stay long away from you, for I slept twelve hours at a stretch last night, and now I’m another man.  But really, I think the air of that Cairnhope Peak would cure a fellow at his last gasp.

“Thank you for the linen, and the brushes, and things.  But you are not the sort to forget anything a fellow might want,” etc.

“No, my darling son.  Be in no hurry to leave Cairnhope.  Of course, love, I was alarmed at first; for I know doctors make the best of every thing; and then the first parting!—­that is always a sorrowful thing.  But, now you are there, I beg you will stay till you are quite recovered.  Your letters are a delight, and one I could not have, and you as well, you know.

“Since you are at Cairnhope—­how strange that seems—­pray go and see the old church, where your forefathers are buried.  There are curious inscriptions, and some brasses nobody could decipher when I was a girl; but perhaps you might, you are so clever.  Your grandfather’s monument is in the chancel:  I want you to see it.  Am I getting very old, that my heart turns back to these scenes of my youth?

“P.S.—­Who is this Martha Dence?”

“Dear mother,—­Martha Dence is the farmer’s daughter I lodge with.  She is not so pretty as her sister Jael that is with Miss Carden; but she is a comely girl, and as good as gold, and bespoke by the butcher.  And her putting slices from her plate to mine is a village custom, I find.

“Mother, the people here are wonderfully good and simple.  First of all, there’s farmer Dence, with his high bald head, like a patriarch of old; and he sits and beams with benevolence, but does not talk much.  But he lets me see I can stay with him six years, if I choose.  Then, there’s Martha, hospitality itself, and ready to fly at my enemies like a mastiff.  She is a little hot in the temper, feathers up in a moment; but, at a soft word, they go down again as quick.  Then, there’s the village blacksmith.  I call him ‘The gentle giant.’  He is a tremendous fellow in height, and size, and sinew; but such a kind, sweet-tempered chap.  He could knock down an ox, yet he wouldn’t harm a fly.  I am his idol:  I sauntered in to his smithy, and forged him one or two knives; and of course he had never seen the hammer used with that nicety; but instead of hating me, as the bad forgers in Hillsborough do, he regularly worships me, and comes blushing up to the farm-house after hours, to ask after me and get a word with me.  He is the best whistler in the parish, and sometimes we march down the village at night, arm-in-arm, whistling a duet.  This charms the natives so that we could take the whole village out at our heels, and put them down in another parish.  But the droll thing is, they will not take me for what I am.  My gentle giant would say ‘Sir’ till I pretended to be affronted; the women and girls will bob me courtesies, and the men and white headed boys will take off their hats and pull their front hair to me.  If a skilled workman wants to burst with vanity, let him settle in Cairnhope.”