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carcass.’
    I flushed. There was no way for me to clear myself; no matter what I did, it would still look as if I was about the same business. I said, ‘There’ll be no report on you, Aunt, how can you think so? You shall read the letter before you hand it to the servant.’
    I had thought, as any one would, that this would soothe her, but her mouth pinched itself into a cold, judging smile.
    ‘My servants take no letters,’ she said, scrutinising my face to see how I received this news. ‘A man from the inn comes to the house. I pay him to do so, and’ – she seemed almost gloating, as if she had thwarted some design of mine – ‘he takes nothing except from my hands.’
    ‘Then you shall give it to him,’ I said, with a lightness I did not feel.
    ‘You’ll give no letters to servants while you are here,’ she added. ‘They are forbidden to receive them.’
    Say nothing of this to my wife .
    I nodded submissively, concealing my excitement. How had Robin contrived to write to my father? And where was the boy who had brought his message? There was no sign of him about the place. Perhaps he had never been in my aunt’s employment at all. Perhaps someone else, some household Judas willing to defy her, had passed the letter to him.
    ‘I’ll give you paper after dinner,’ she said.

    I was so taken up with the new possibilities opening before me that I am afraid I thanked her ungraciously.
    ‘In the meantime,’ she went on, ‘let me show you the crop. You can tell me how long it will take.’
    *

    There was indeed a splendid apple harvest already gathered in, though the latest and best-drinking fruits still clung to the trees. I stood and marvelled at the gleaming heaps within the cider-house. My aunt’s orchard supplied her with a greater variety than was usual, some kinds so small and hard that, next to their larger brothers and sisters, they hardly seemed apples at all.
    ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you&rsqu;re blessed in your orchard. But why isn’t your cider-making started yet?’
    ‘The screw seized up. Binnie’s been trying to loosen it.’
    ‘We can use mine,’ I said, delighted at this good fortune.
    ‘How long, then?’ she asked. It was the question I had been trying to sidestep since I arrived, but faced with the crop I could no longer avoid it.
    ‘It depends,’ I said, ‘if you want all these pressed together, or if you want some mixtures – a sweet cider, a bittersweet –’
    ‘Is that better?’
    ‘Much better.’ And would take longer, since there would be repeated sortings, loadings and unloadings. I added cunningly, ‘That’s how the big houses have it done.’
    My aunt was not too ambitious to pause and consider. ‘But would it answer here? Our crop is smaller than theirs.’
    ‘In size, yes,’ I admitted. ‘But the fruit is as good. Why should you not have as good a cider?’
    ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You can start tomorrow.’ She spoke grudgingly, as if granting a favour, but I could tell nonetheless that she was pleased with me and perhaps even a little impressed at my knowledge. I was pleased with myself : after a number of false casts I had at last found a way to wind in Aunt Harriet. My bait was the very oldest, and still the best: Pride.

    * * *

    My Dear Father and Mother,
    Pray do not worry on my account since I find myself well and strong enough for any amount of work. Aunt Harriet, who greets you cordially, is also well, though sadly grieved by my uncle’s death .
    There is an excellent crop of early apples here and my aunt’s press has been broken by ignorant handling. I am therefore pressing them for her, the various sorts separately; my stay must be some days before all is done .
    Should any ask after me, tell them I will be with them in good time and none will be neglected .
    Your most loving son
    Jonathan Dymond

    ‘Hardly eloquent,’ my aunt grunted, reading this. We were sitting at breakfast, the day after my arrival; I felt vigorous, restored by a