It was
addressed to himself; and for a few moments his heart beat quicker,
with sharp, clean percussions, as if it were trying to imitate the
sounds made by the two clerks as they plied their stampers on the
blocks. Perhaps this envelope contained his fate.
Soon the stamping was finished; the sorting went on steadily and
methodically; before long the letters and parcels were neatly arranged
in compartments near the postmen's bags. The first delivery of the day
was ready to go forth to the awakening world.
"All through, Mr. Dale."
The postmaster struck a bell, and glanced at the clock. Five
fifty-six. Up to time, as usual.
"Now then, my lads, off with you."
The postmen had come into the sorting-room, and were packing their
bags and slinging their parcels.
"Sharp's the word."
Picking up his unopened letter, the postmaster went through the public
office, stood on the outer threshold, and looked up and down the
street.
To his left the ground sloped downward through a narrowing perspective
of house-fronts and roof cornices to faint white mist, in which one
could see some cattle moving vaguely, and beyond which, if one knew
that it was there, one might just discern a wide space of common land
stretching away boldly until the dark barrier of woods stopped it
short.
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