An'
there ain't nothink o' 'ern in this room on'y a pair o' ole shoes an'
a few rags in that ole trunk under the winder.'
I went to the trunk and raised the lid. The tattered, stained remains
of the very dress she wore when I last saw her in the mist on
Snowdon! But what else? Pushed into an old worn shoe, which with its
fellow lay tossed among the ragged clothes, was a brown stained
letter. I took it out. It was addressed to 'Miss Winifred Wynne at
Mrs. Davies's.' Part of the envelope was torn away. It bore the
Graylingham post-mark, and its superscription was in a hand which I
did not recognise, and yet it was a hand which seemed half-familiar
to me. I opened it; I read a line or two before I fully realised what
it was--the letter, full of childish prattle, which I had written to
Winifred when I was a little boy--the first letter I wrote to her.
I forgot where I was, I forgot that Sinfi was standing outside the
door, till I heard the woman's voice exclaiming, 'What do you want to
set on my bed an' look at me like that for?--you ain't no p'leaceman
in plain clothes, so none o' your larks.
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