s anoother letter for th' Cottage, the vairy fetch of yowern,
Granny, all but th' neam. Th' neam on't was Mrs. Picture, and on yowern
Mrs. Marrowbone, and if th' neam had been sa'am on both, 'twould have
ta'aken Loondon Town to tell 'em apart."

"And you left one at the Cottage, and brought the other on here? Was
that it? Sharp man!" The doctor was pulling on his thick driving-gloves,
to depart. Granny Marrable was opening her letter already. "Bless the
boy," said she, "he's writing to both his Grannies with the same pen, so
they may not be jealous!"

"You may call me a sha'arp ma'an for soomat else, doctor," said Mr.
Barlow, locking his undelivered letters into the inner core of the new
mail-cart. "This time I be no cleverer than my letters. 'Twas Joe
Kerridge's wife, next dower the cottage, said, 'Ta'ak it on to the
Granny at Dessington.' And says I to her, 'They'm gotten the sa'am yoong
ma'an to write 'em love-letters,' I says. 'You couldn't tell they two
letters apart, but for the neams on 'em.' And then Mrs. Lisbeth she says
to me, 'Some do say they have to keep their eyes open to tell the old
la'adies apart,' she says. 'But I'm anoother way o' thinking mysen,' she
says, 'by reason of this Mrs. Prichard's white head o' hair.' And then I
handed all the letters to Lisbeth for Strides, as well as her own,
seeing ne'er one came out at door for knocking, and brought yowern on
with Farmer Costrell's." Mr. Barlow had been spoken of in the village
more than once as a woundy chatterbox.

The doctor glanced at Granny Marrable to see how she had taken the
reference to her resemblance to Mrs. Prichard, but was just too late to
see her face. She had turned to go into the house, and the only evidence
he had that it had perturbed her at all was that she said good-night to
no one. He felt that he had more than fulfilled his promise to Lady
Gwendolen, having done everything short of forcing the pace. His other
patient was no doubt already execrating him for not coming to time, so
he drove off briskly; at least, so his pony flattered himself. Ideas of
speed differ.

The horse whose quick step the doctor heard overhauling him, about a
mile on his road, had another ideal, evidently. It did not concern him;
so he ignored it until, as its nearer approach caused him to edge close
to the margin of the narrow road, the voice of its driver shouted to
him, and he pulled up to see why. Perhaps Mr. Barlow, the shouter, had
lighted on an ov