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Updated: May 23, 2025
Donna's question convinced her that she was not mistaken. Her bright little eyes gleamed archly. "Why, we never did learn who it was that saved you, Donna. Is it a secret?" "Why, no." Miss Pickett waited in agony for ten seconds, but Donna, having replied fully to her query, volunteered no further information. In desperation the post-mistress demanded: "Well, then, why do you keep it to yourself?"
"Don't disturb him if he's visiting," remonstrated Red. "He won't call that disturbing him," replied the post-mistress, with a shrill laugh. "He'll be here in no time." She was a true prophet. It seemed as if the boy had barely left the store when he returned with a stoop-shouldered, solemn-faced man, who had a brush-heap of chin-whisker decorating the lower part of his face.
Harry was very sorry to hear of this lost time, for he knew that his wood-cutting would come to an end as soon as the season was sufficiently advanced to give the men an opportunity of hiring themselves for farm-work; but it was of no use to talk any more about it; and so, after depositing Kate at the post-office, where the post-mistress, who knew her well, gave her a nice little "snack" of buttermilk, cold fried chicken, and "light-bread," he went to the station and transacted his business.
Often, at evening, she ascended a dark gorge of the western hills and plunged down on the other side, as though in hot pursuit of the setting sun; and at length there came a report from the gossiping post-mistress of a little village over there, that she came for letters, which she duly received, addressed in a dashing, manly hand.
The dust settled enough so that the anxious villagers could see horse and man; the former resting easily, as if he had had enough athletics for one day, and the latter sitting in the road. Neither showed any intention of rising. "What's the matter, Mr. Saunders, are you hurt?" inquired the fussy post-mistress. "Please go 'way, ma'am," said Red, waving his arm.
Well, I'll stop in and see the lady that deals the mail I'll bet you what that woman doesn't know about what's going on in this camp will never get into history be back right away." Said he to the post-mistress, "My name's Saunders, ma'am cousin to Miss Mattie.
"Not exactly," says the botanist, very agreeably. "No." "Do you mean to say neither of you know your own numbers?" says the little post-mistress, with a rising note. "Yes," I say, with an engaging smile and trying to keep up a good social tone. "It's queer, isn't it? We've both forgotten." "You're joking," she suggests. "Well," I temporise. "I suppose you've got your thumbs?"
He would not allow himself to be called Thomas Holbrook, ESQ.; he even sent back letters with this address, telling the post-mistress at Cranford that his name was MR Thomas Holbrook, yeoman. He rejected all domestic innovations; he would have the house door stand open in summer and shut in winter, without knocker or bell to summon a servant.
During the voyage he had repeated more names than can be found in the Royal Almanac. The good post-mistress listened with respectful deference, delighted at finding herself in company with such a highly connected individual.
Unendingly hopeful, the oppression of disaster seemed only to confirm and strengthen her finest qualities. Like the pine-tree winning vigour from its rock-clasped roots, she gathered such hardening strength of soul and body from his condition as the more happy years had never put at her command. "No letters to-day, Miss Leila," said the post-mistress standing beside the younger woman's horse.
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