'Mr. Weller,' said Mrs. Craddock, upon the morning of this very
eventful day, 'here's a letter for you.'
'Wery odd that,' said Sam; 'I'm afeerd there must be somethin'
the matter, for I don't recollect any gen'l'm'n in my circle of
acquaintance as is capable o' writin' one.'
'Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,' observed
Mrs. Craddock.
'It must be somethin' wery uncommon indeed, as could
perduce a letter out o' any friend o' mine,' replied Sam, shaking
his head dubiously; 'nothin' less than a nat'ral conwulsion, as the
young gen'l'm'n observed ven he wos took with fits. It can't be
from the gov'ner,' said Sam, looking at the direction. 'He always
prints, I know, 'cos he learnt writin' from the large bills in the
booking-offices. It's a wery strange thing now, where this here
letter can ha' come from.'
As Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when
they are uncertain about the writer of a note—looked at the seal,
and then at the front, and then at the back, and then at the sides,
and then at the superscription; and, as a last resource, thought
perhaps he might as well look at the inside, and try to find out
from that.
'It's wrote on gilt-edged paper,' said Sam, as he unfolded it,
'and sealed in bronze vax vith the top of a door key. Now for it.'
And, with a very grave face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows—
