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It was when his duties of secretaryship to Miss Flora had dwindled to almost infinitesimal proportions that Mr. Smith wished suddenly that he were serving Miss Maggie in that capacity, so concerned was he over a letter that had come to Miss Maggie in that morning's mail. He himself had taken it from the letter-carrier's hand and had placed it on Miss Maggie's little desk.
For one whole week he did not go near the Stanton house. He contented himself with hoping. He would sit in his little room and rush out every time he heard the letter-carrier's whistle, but no letter came. One day, when he could no longer restrain himself, he carefully brushed his clothes and prepared to walk uptown again. "She must be in, she must be in; and she will see me.
"Then he's just the man I want," Ralston spoke with emphasis. He rose, held out his hand toward the flustered visitor. "Thanks for telling me.... And now we'll all go for a drink together." "That's Bill Ralston!" said Benito to his wife. They laughed about the anecdote which Windham had related at the dinner table. Robert, in his new letter-carrier's uniform, spoke up.
Close to the residence of Solomon Flint there was a small outhouse or shed, which formed part of the letter-carrier's domain, but was too small to be sub-let as a dwelling, and too inconveniently situated in a back court to be used as an apartment. It was therefore devoted to the reception of lumber. But Solomon, not being a rich man, did not possess much lumber.
Raymond, who sat sewing on her own porch, opened the solitary letter the postman handed her, and proceeded to acquaint herself with its contents in full view of the watchers on the other side of the street. "This must be Mother's Day," Amy exclaimed disapprovingly, when, a moment later, she accepted from the letter-carrier's hand a fat blue envelope directed to Mrs. Gibson Lassell.
Yet it seemed there was one for some member of the family; the letter-carrier's regular tread ascended the five steps to the door, and then two small thunderclaps echoed through the house. There was no letter-box; Richard went to answer the knock. An envelope addressed to himself in a small, formal hand.
It hung within him, a leaden weight coiled with bitterness and hate. His mind was a blazing furnace of furious resentment, emitting sparks of rage that kindled other fires in the storehouse of his emotions, until his temper seemed to reflect the conflict of all tempers. The shrill call of a letter-carrier's whistle banished the silent fury into which he had worked himself.
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