Ask
him if there isn't somebody else he can get to do it; if there
isn't, I will; — tell him I am busy."
Margery withdrew, and Ellen buried herself again in her book.
Anthony Fox was a poor Irishman, whose uncouth attempts at a
letter Ellen had once offered to write out and make straight
for him, upon hearing Margery tell of his lamenting that he
could not make one fit to send _home_ to his mother.
Presently Margery came in again, stopping this time at the
table, which Mr. John had pushed to the far side of the room,
to get away from the fire.
"I beg your pardon, Sir," she said; "I am ashamed to be so
troublesome — but this Irish body, this Anthony Fox, has
begged me, and I didn't know how to refuse him, to come in and
ask for a sheet of paper and a pen for him, Sir — he wants to
copy a letter — if Mr. John would be so good; a quill pen,
Sir, if you please; he cannot write with any other."
"No," said John, coolly. "Ellen will do it."
Margery looked in some doubt from the table to the sofa, but
Ellen instantly rose up, and with a burning cheek came forward
and took the paper from the hand where Margery still held it.
"Ask him to wait a little while, Margery," she, said
hurriedly; "I'll do it as soon as I can — tell him in half an
hour."
It was not a very easy nor quick job. Ellen worked at it
patiently, and finished it well by the end of the half-hour;
though with a burning cheek still; and a dimness over her eyes
frequently obliged her to stop till she could clear them.
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