The old woman wrote a few lines reminding Meadows that the pursuit of
earthly objects could never bring any steady comfort, and telling him
that she should be lost in his great house--that it would seem quite
strange to her to go into the town after so many years' quiet--but
that if he was minded to come out and see her she would be glad to see
him and glad of the opportunity to give him her advice, if he was in a
better frame for listening to it than last time she offered it to him,
and that was two years come Martinmas.

Then the old woman paused, next she reflected, and afterward dried her
unfinished letter. And as she began slowly to fold it up and put it in
her pocket--"Hannah," cried she thoughtfully.

Hannah appeared in the doorway.

"I dare say--you may fetch--my cloak and bonnet. Why, if the wench
hasn't got them on her arm. What, you made up your mind that I should
go, then?"

"That I did," replied Hannah. "Your warm shawl is in the cart, Mrs.
Meadows."

"Oh! you did, did you. Young folks are apt to be sure and certain. I
was in two minds about it, so I don't see how the child could be
sure," said she, dividing her remark between vacancy and the person
addressed--a grammatical privilege of old age.

"Oh! but _I_ was sure, for that matter," replied Hannah firmly.