It came from the north, addressed, in pale, sprawling characters, to
Skipper Tommy Lovejoy of our harbour--a crumpled, greasy, ill-odoured
missive: little enough like a letter from a lady, bearing (as we
supposed) a coy appeal to the tender passion. But----
"Ay, Davy," my sister insisted. "'Tis from _she_. Smell it for
yourself."