Tate?" asked the master.
Hagar nodded assent. "Said ye was to hev it dis yer afternoon, sure," said she; "'twa'n't no letter to be lyin' 'round in dem Culm huts, so he cum up here wid it hisself. Be it frum Hastings, Mas'r Dick?"
Hagar had lived in the Trafford family from childhood, and Richard had grown up to manhood under her eyes, had married, and she went to live with the young people. She had seen the wife fade and die, and the husband grow stern and gloomy, and out of solicitude and affection had clung faithfully to him through all fortunes. It would seem, to hear her talk, that she never had quite realized that Richard Trafford, the man of forty, was any other than "Mas'r Dick," the boy whose smartness at school, and whose popularity among his companions, had always been her boast and pride. Gray and worn he was getting, gloomy, sad, even harsh at times to her, yet he was only "Mas'r Dick," and her own little boy, for whom she must watch and care to the best of her ability. Now, as she q