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A SUMMONS.
One hot Saturday afternoon, in the sleepiest time of the day,
when nothing was doing; and nobody in the shop, except a poor boy
who had come begging for some string to help him fly his kite,
though for the last month wind had been more scarce than string,
Jemima came in from Durnmelling, and, greeting Mary with the
warmth of the friendship that had always been true between them,
gave her a letter.
"Whom is this from?" asked Mary, with the usual human waste of
inquiry, seeing she held the surest answer in her hand.
"Mr. Mewks gave it me," said Jemima. "He didn't say whom it was
from."
Mary made haste to open it: she had an instinctive distrust of
everything that passed through Mewks's hands, and greatly feared
that, much as his master trusted him, he was not true to him. She
found the following note from Mr. Redmain:
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