When
Matty came to the end, and made her understand how much
depended on the day-book, register, and ledger of her
husband, it was a fair minute before she spoke.
"We will see, my dear, we will see. I wish it may be
so, but I 'm all afeard. It would not be like him, my
dear. It would not be like any of them. But come with
me, my dear, we will see--we will see."
Then, as Matty followed her, through devious ways,
out through the kitchen, across a queer bricked yard,
into a half stable, half woodshed, which the good woman
unlocked, she went on talking:--
"You see, my dear child, that though notaries are
called notaries, as if it were their business to give
notice, the most important part of their business is
keeping secrets. Now, when a man's note goes to protest,
the notary tells him what has happened, which he knew
very well before; and then he comes to the notary and
begs him not to tell anybody else, and of course he does
not. And the business of a notary's account books, as my
husband used to say, is to tell just enough, and not to
tell any more.
"Why, my dear child, he would not use blotting-paper
in the office,--he would always use sand. `Blotting-
paper! Never!' he would say; 'Blotting-paper tells
secrets!'"
With such chatter they came to the little chilly
room, which was shelved all around, and to Matty's glad
eyes presented rows of green and blue and blue and red
boxes,--and folio and quarto books of every date, from
1829 to 1869, forty years in which the late Mr.
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