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Updated: May 6, 2025
No names were mentioned, but I knew she was thinking of Alice, the postmaster's daughter, a fair young maiden, soft in speech, quiet in manners, and constant at meeting, a maiden, in fact, of whom I had long stood in dread. My school commenced the week after Thanksgiving. I had fancied myself appearing among my scholars like a king surrounded by his subjects.
A clatter of voices rose, as others, taking courage, decided to tell experiences of their own; but it was the Postmaster's wife in the hall who won. She had her meals outside with the kitchen maid and her niece, who helped in the Post Office, and she always tried to take part in the conversation from a distance thus.
Each apostle based her claim on the superior virtue and attainments of her clergy, and clinched the business with a threat of hell-fire. "Pas bong prêtres ici," said the Presbyterian, "bong prêtres en Écosse." And the postmaster's daughter, taking up the same weapon, plied me, so to speak, with the butt of it instead of the bayonet.
In Charley's mind was the question, Who had discovered his presence here? Was he not, then, to escape? Who should send him parcels through the post? The Cure was perturbed. Was he, then, to know who this man was his name and history? Was the story of his life now to be told? Charley broke the silence. "Tell the girl to come in." Instantly afterwards the postmaster's daughter entered.
As the day of the excursion approached the disquieting thought came with increasing frequency to Symes that they would be irritated. The postmaster's curt "nothing" was like a judge's sentence to Essie Tisdale, for it meant to her the end of things. And now the marriage ceremony was over. She looked at the gold band upon her finger with a heavy, sinking heart.
Gray, respectable men, with daughters married, leaped over fences and sprang back, prominent legislators hopped howling up and down door-steps, women waved handkerchiefs from windows and porches, the chattering Jode flew from anemometer to rain-gauge, and old Judge Burrage apostrophized Providence in his front yard, with the postmaster's label still pinned to his back.
Hardly had the window been declared open than the postmaster's chum stepped up and, after a moment of whispered conversation, disappeared behind the portière. Called the master of ceremonies in stentorian tones: "Two packages and three letters for Martha Gill!" Martha Gill shook her head. Cries of "Go ahead" arose from the boys, while the girls tittered at her embarrassment.
Now, if you'll put on your hat, you can go and get that new-fangled doctor from the city. The postmaster's wife told me yesterday that he'd sent Barbara one of them souverine postal cards and said on it he'd be down last night. As you go, you might stop and tell the Norths that he's comin', for they don't go after their mail much and most likely it's still there in the box.
Even a rush like this did not fill up the postmaster's whole month, though, and therefore he "kept store" in the intervals. The Squire was contemplating the morning.
The postmaster's wife can get the addresses without tearin' off the covers, and after I get 'em read she can borrow mine, and not be always makin' the people at the Ridge so mad that she's runnin' the risk of losin' her job. If you ain't the beatenest!" Basking in the unaccustomed warmth of his mother's approval, Roger finished his supper in peace.
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