I have been rare and
busy since then, and I have no time to write more. And so 'twill be
another year before you get a word from me; but I hope that when this
letter comes you'll write one back to me by the ship that sails next
summer from London. The summer's short and the winter's long here, Cousin
Fanny, and there's more snow than grass; and there's more flowers in a
week in Mablethorpe than in a whole year here. But, lass, the sun shines
always, and my heart keeps warm in thinkin' of you, and I ask you to
forgive me for any harsh word I ever spoke, not forgettin' that last
night when I left you on the sands, and stole away like a thief across
the sea. I'm going to tell you the whole truth in my next letter, but I'd
like you to forgive me before you know it all, for 'tis a right lonely
and distant land, this, and who can tell what may come to pass in twice a
twelve month! Maybe a prayer on lips like mine doesn't seem in place, for
I've not lived as parson says man ought to live, but I think the Lord
will have no worse thought o' me when I say, God bless thee, lass, and
keep thee safe as any flower in His garden that He watereth with His own
hand. Write to me, lass: I love thee still, I do love thee.
"DICK ORRY."
II
THE BOOK-IN-HAND INN,
MABLETHORPE, LINCOLNSHIRE.
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