Crowned lion and lamb on back

The Pennance Hotel has taken the last of the Whitsun lodgers and the landlady has finally let me sit down. I am writing this on the back of a coal bill, so forgive the smudges. Mr Trewin, who keeps the signboard shop behind the harbour, has given me the lettering for the chapel gate, and I have spent four evenings copying out a lion for him that he swears will sell to the fishermen's wives. He wants a proper crown on it, gold at the points, and he wants a lamb tucked beneath the lion's chin like a dog asleep on the hearth.

Yesterday I asked him why a lion would want a lamb at all. He put down his brush, wiped his hands on his apron and said the verse was the reason, not the picture. Romans, the first chapter, the sixteenth verse. He would not say it aloud. He only tapped the words with the wet end of his brush, then went back to his gilt.

I did the lamb's eye last. It took me three goes. The first two looked frightened, and Trewin said the lamb was not meant to be frightened, only sure of its keeping. So the third one I made patient, and when I stepped back the whole board seemed to settle, the way the boats do when the tide turns.

He has paid me a shilling more than we agreed and says I may have the leftover gold leaf for my hatbox. I will bring it home at Michaelmas. Tell Mother the sea air agrees with me, and that I have not once been sick on the ferry.

Your loving sister, Nell