“Stop a minit,” replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing here and there, to reflect, as he did so. “You’ve hit it. The gen’l’m’n as wrote it wos a-tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in a proper vay, and then my father comes a-lookin’ over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin’ his oar in. That’s just the wery sort o’ thing he’d do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.”

Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up⁠—

“And so the poor creetur’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She warn’t a bad-disposed ’ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for it.”

Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.