There she found a stout elderly woman, bearing a note for "Marcus
Wilkeson, Esq."
"Lor'! how slow you are!" said the stout woman, handing the letter to
her.
Mash, who had read, in the twenty-third chapter, of the overwhelming way
in which the heroine cook had answered an insult by dignified silence,
said not a word in reply, but took the note, and slammed the door in the
stout woman's face.
The exclamation "Bah!" and certain indistinct mutterings which were
audible through the panels, convinced Mash that, by her self-denial, she
had won a moral victory. It was with a feeling of excusable pride that
she walked into the back parlor, and delivered the note to
Marcus Wilkeson.
"Thank you, Mash," said he. It was a singular illustration of his
excessive politeness, that he was no less grateful for paid services
than for free.
Mash retired, thinking to herself that, if Mr. Wilkeson were only a
pirate, a smuggler, a guerilla chieftain, or a dashing fellow in some
unlawful, dangerous business, a few years younger, he would be a
perfect hero.
Marcus did not recognize the handwriting of the address.
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