Wolf head with red rose

The lodger in number six has finally paid his arrears, though not in coin. He came down the stairs on Tuesday with a rolled canvas under his arm and a face like a bad winter, and asked whether I still kept the rose bush by the coal store. I said it had been there since Father planted it, and he could have one cutting if he promised not to climb the wall again. He snipped the stem with his teeth, which I thought a rude thing to do, and then he laughed, which I thought ruder.

By morning he was gone before the gulls were up. He left the canvas on the hall table, tied with string, and a note that said only: for the girl who keeps the dog out of the wet. I have no dog, Tom, and no girl, only Dilys who sweeps. But when I untied it there was a wolf looking out at me from the paper, grey as the sea off the breakwater, with yellow eyes that have seen the same weather we have, and a red rose held in its teeth as though it had been asked to carry it home.

I have hung it above the mantel in the front parlour. Mrs Quayle says it will frighten the guests. I told her the guests frighten themselves, and the wolf has better manners than most of them, holding a flower and not complaining about the damp.

Come home at Michaelmas if you can. The bush has one bloom left, and I would like someone to tell me what the wolf is keeping it for.

Your loving sister, Ada