A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

To Burrough's surprise and delight, another little note came in Beatrice's quaint handwriting -- each word was like a long-legged spider -- the envelope postmarked Sennen, as before. Certainly the girl was not a complete letter-writer. Her fun, daintiness, and nonsense seemed to desert her directly she took a pen into her hand. It was a most precise note, telling him she had just spent a night lance-spearing in the sands, though she did not mention the name of the sands. Her aunt was not at all well, and was grumbling a great deal. She was having some photographs printed of herself in fisher-girl's costume -- long boots, oilskins, and jersey -- and would send him one if he cared to have it. And she remained "his old pal, Bill. " It was a most unfeminine epistle, not even containing a postscript; but it convinced Burrough that he was remembered.

The omens for his success had been lately more favourable. The slight operation had been performed with considerable success, the false eye had been fitted, he had become accustomed to the new sensation which it caused and the new expression which it gave, and he was able to agree with the enthusiastic surgeon that the result was a triumph of surgical art. His appearance was altered very strikingly for the better now that the principal cause of disfigurement had been removed. He was no longer unpleasant to gaze upon. The false eye certainly changed his expression. It made him look alert and businesslike, and it also added a suggestion of cunning to his face which he did not like.

Acting on a friendly suggestion made to him privately at the camp, Burrough wrote to the War Office withdrawing his claim. He was assured that by so doing he would prevent much unpleasantness, on the one side of giving, and on the other of receiving, an unfavourable reply. It was pointed out that a great deal had been done for him, that he was in very much the same position then as before the accident, with health and powers of working practically unaffected, and that he was to blame for having exposed himself to danger, being a commoner perfectly well acquainted with the ranges used by the artillery and the times of firing, and not an ignorant visitor who had strayed upon that part of the moor by chance. So Burrough climbed down gracefully, and expressed himself well satisfied with the care and attention which had been bestowed upon him. The camp broke up, and the moor was abandoned to its winter solitude and dreariness. And the owner of the cottage by the gorge, conscious that he would have to rely upon his own efforts entirely, settled earnestly to work, his pipe his sole companion, now that poor Peter had passed away for ever.

At last he wrote to Beatrice, unable to bear the sense of separation any longer. Merely a few lines reminding her she had not sent him her address, begging her to do so, and promising he would not come down without her permission, and that he would be obedient in all things. He commenced the letter, "My dear Bill," and concluded it, "Yours always, Jack"; and he enclosed it, carefully sealed, in an envelope addressed to the post-mistress of Sennen, and containing a polite request that she would give the enclosed to Poltesco, the fisherman, if she did not wish to add Beatrice's address herself.

A few days later there came an answer in quite a different style --

"So you went to Sennen, and you made kind inquiries about me, and you moralised at the Land's End, did you? I heard all about the poor old soldier who had lost his eye in the wars. But why did you? In the note I left for you with the Cobbledicks I charged you not to search diligently for me. I was afraid you might want to forget that my name is Bill, the fisherman of the hamlet of Blank, in the parish of Blank, in the kingdom of West Wales. You might have written every day and run to and fro. I judged you quite accurately. Well, now, as Bill, I should like to see you; but as Beatrice I ought not to. That is why I don't give geographical particulars concerning my hut circle. Of course I shall see you again, and as two wild boys we'll ramble in Blissland, and go swaling, and walk to Cranmere. We'll do it all over again next summer. By that time we shall have become more settled in our minds. Apart altogether from the results of that horrid accident -- though I do hear they have patched you up and made a first-rate job -- I'm not the sort of fisherman to meet a girl on Monday, want her to say ‘Yes' on Tuesday, and to wear a wedding-ring on Wednesday. You know what I mean. I'll give you Poltesco's address, and you may write to me through him once a month. Just ‘Dear Bill. ' You understand. No endearments and no diminutives. Do you want a successor to King Peter? If so, I'll send you one in a basket. He's a little prince, but not royal, and he laps milk like a cherub. He's doing his little traedjawg -- worse than gorse-prickles -- on my knee as I write. I'm working hard on my native moor. I'm actually doing a little independent tin-streaming. You may write when you get this.

"Your old pal, "Bill.

"P. S. -- I'm certain I am right in keeping you in the dark about my address. After a little you will think me a perfect toad."