Old Rogers now saw that there was more in it than he had thought, and held his peace and waited.  After a minute or two of fierce activity, Thomas lifted up a face more white than the deal board he was planing, and said,

“You should have come to the point a little sooner, Old Rogers.”

He then laid down his plane, and went out of the workshop, leaving Rogers standing there in bewilderment.  But he was not gone many minutes.  He returned with a letter in his hand.

“There,” he said, giving it to Rogers.

“I can’t read hand o’ write,” returned Rogers.  “I ha’ enough ado with straight-foret print But I’ll take it to parson.”

“On no account,” returned Thomas, emphatically “That’s not what I gave it you for.  Neither you nor parson has any right to read that letter; and I don’t want either of you to read it.  Can Jane read writing?”

“I don’t know as she can, for, you see, what makes lasses take to writin’ is when their young man’s over the seas, leastways not in the mill over the brook.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Thomas, and taking the letter from Rogers’s hand, he left the shop again.

He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an envelope, addressed to Miss Oldcastle.

“Now, you tell your Jane to give that to Miss Oldcastle from me—­mind, from me; and she must give it into her own hands, and let no one else see it.  And I must have it again.  Mind you tell her all that, Old Rogers.”

“I will.  It’s for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to know on’t.  And you’re to have it again all safe when done with.”

“Yes.  Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it?”

“I think I can.  I ought to, anyhow.  But she can’t know anythink in the letter now, Mr Weir.”

I know that; but Marshmallows is a talkin’ place.  And poor Kate ain’t right out o’ hearin’ yet.—­You’ll come and see her buried to-morrow, won’t ye, Old Rogers?”

“I will, Thomas.  You’ve had a troubled life, but thank God the sun came out a bit before she died.”

“That’s true, Rogers.  It’s all right, I do think, though I grumbled long and sore.  But Jane mustn’t speak of that letter.”

“No.  That she shan’t.”

“I’ll tell you some day what’s in it.  But I can’t bear to talk about it yet”

And so they parted.

I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my dead out of my sight or to comfort my living the next Sunday.  I got help from Addicehead, however, and the dead bodies were laid aside in the ancient wardrobe of the tomb.  They were both buried by my vestry-door, Catherine where I had found young Tom lying, namely, in the grave of her mother, and old Mrs Tomkins on the other side of the path.

On Sunday, Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and she carried it to the Hall.  It was not till she had to wait on her mistress before leaving her for the night that she found an opportunity of giving it into her own hands.