P'raps they've bid
her wear her best--the white frock Mavis gave her, with the stockings
to match, and the new buckle-shoes--and likely young lads'll eye her
all over as they pass. Yes, she's seeing now the young uns--the mates
for her age--the proper article to make a photograph of a suitable
pair; and she'll soon stop thinking anything about me, if she hasn't
done it a'ready."
He was in his office still thinking of her, after the busy day, when
the postman brought the last delivery of letters.
"Good evening, sir. Only three to-night."
"Thank you. Good night, George," and Dale had a friendly smile for
this old acquaintance.
Postman George was growing fat and heavy, betraying signs of age. He
had been a sprightly telegraph boy when Dale was postmaster of
Rodchurch.
"Good night, sir. Fine weather for the hay."
"Yes, capital."
When the postman had gone Dale stood trembling. One of the letters was
from her. He felt unnerved by the mere sight of her handwriting on the
envelope--the hand that was so like his own, the hand that she had
taught herself by laborious study and imitation of his official
copper-plate; and he thought, "If I was wise I shouldn't open it. If I
was strong enough, I should just burn it, without reading.
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