The last, I fancy, had got into that box by some
oversight--pardonable in the press of business.'
'They're always the same,' said the fat shopkeeper. 'We don't make no
mistakes of that kind.'
'Ah! Forgive me! Perhaps I imagined--'
Egg and lettuce were carefully deposited in a little handbag he carried,
and he returned home. An hour later, when his meal was finished, and he sat
on a straight-backed chair meditating in the twilight, a rap sounded at his
door, and a letter was handed to him. So rarely did a letter arrive for Mr.
Tymperley that his hand shook as he examined the envelope. On opening it,
the first thing he saw was a cheque. This excited him still more; he
unfolded the written sheet with agitation. It came from Mrs. Weare, who
wrote thus:--
'MY DEAR MR. TYMPERLEY,--After our talk last evening, I could not help
thinking of you and your beautiful life of self-sacrifice. I
contrasted the lot of these poor people with my own, which, one cannot
but feel, is so undeservedly blest and so rich in enjoyments. As a
result of these thoughts, I feel impelled to send you a little
contribution to your good work--a sort of thank-offering at the moment
of setting off for a happy holiday.
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