Nothing more was said on the subject till after the return of the
family from church; but, during the sermon Mr. Neefit had had an
opportunity of thinking the subject over, and had resolved that this
was a matter in which it behoved him to be master. How was this
marriage to be brought about if the young people were not allowed to
see each other? Of course he might fail. He knew that. Very probably
Mr. Newton might not accept the invitation,--might never show himself
again at Alexandrina Cottage; but unless an effort was made there
could not be success. "I don't see why he shouldn't eat a bit of
dinner here," said Mr. Neefit, as soon as his pipe was lighted after
their early dinner. "It ain't anything out of the way, as I know of."

"You're thinking of Polly, Neefit?"

"Why shouldn't I be thinking of her? There ain't no more of 'em.
What's the use of working for her, if one don't think of her?"

"It won't do no good, Neefit. If we had things here as we might have
'em, indeed--!"

"What's amiss?"

"With nothing to drink out of, only common wine-glasses; and it's my
belief Jemima 'd never cook a dinner as he'd look at. I know what
they are,--them sort of young men. They're worse than a dozen ladies
when you come to vittels."

Nevertheless Mr. Neefit resolved upon having his own way, and it was
settled that Ralph Newton should be asked to come and eat a bit of
dinner on next Sunday. Then there arose a difficulty as to the mode
of asking him. Neefit himself felt that it would be altogether out of
his line to indite an invitation. In days gone by, before he kept a
clerk for the purpose, he had written very many letters to gentlemen,
using various strains of pressure as he called their attention to the
little outstanding accounts which stood on his books and were thorns
in his flesh. But of the writing of such letters as this now intended
to be written he had no experience. As for Mrs. Neefit, her skill in
this respect was less even than that of her husband. She could write,
no doubt. On very rare occasions she would make some expression of
her thoughts with pen and ink to Polly, when she and Polly were
apart. But no one else ever saw how slight was her proficiency in
this direction. But Polly was always writing. Polly's pothooks, as
her father called them, were pictures in her father's eyes. She
could dash off straight lines of writing,--line after line,--with
sharp-pointed angles and long-tailed letters, in a man