in her hands, for said she, bairnlike, "I used to get
one every day." It so happened that one of the letters was to Mysy
Bobbie; and Mysy was of so little importance that he thought there would
be no harm in letting the Painted Lady hold her letter, so he gave it to
her, and you should have seen her dawting it with her hand and holding
it to her breast like a lassie with a pigeon. "Isn't it sweet?" she
said, and before he could stop her she kissed it. She forgot it was no
letter of hers, and made to open it, and then she fell a-trembling and
saying she durst not read it, for you never knew whether the first words
might not break your heart. The envelope was red where her lips had
touched it, and yet she had an innocent look beneath the paint. When he
took the letter from her, though, she called him a low, vulgar fellow
for presuming to address a lady. She worked herself into a fury, and
said far worse than that; a perfect guller of clarty language came
pouring out of her. He had heard women curse many a time without turning
a hair, but he felt wae when she did it, for she just spoke it like a
bairn that had been in ill company.

The smith's wife, Suphy, who had joined the company, thought that men
were easily taken in, especially smiths. She offered, however, to convey
the letter to Double Dykes. She was anxious to see the inside of the
Painted Lady's house, and this would be a good opportunity. She admitted
that she had crawled to the east window of it before now, but that dour
bairn of the Painted Lady's had seen her head and whipped down the
blind.

Unfortunate Suphy! she could not try the window this time, as it was
broad daylight, and the Painted Lady took the letter from her at the
door. She returned crestfallen, and for an hour nothing happened. The
mole-catcher went off to the square, saying, despondently, that nothing
would happen until he was round the corner. No sooner had he rounded the
corner than something did happen.

A girl who had left Double Dykes with a letter was walking quickly
toward Monypenny. She wore a white pinafore over a magenta frock, and no
one could tell her whether she was seven or eight, for she was only the
Painted Lady's child. Some boys, her natural enemies, were behind; they
had just emerged from the Den, and she heard them before they saw her,
and at once her little heart jumped and ran off with her. But the halloo
that told her she was discovered checked her running. Her teeth w