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Updated: June 23, 2025
"Lord bless 'ee," said Mrs Crump, the postmistress, and Mrs Crump was supposed to have the sourest temper in Allington, "whenever I look at thee, Miss Lily, I thinks that surely thee is the beautifulest young 'ooman in all these parts." "And you are the crossest old woman," said Lily, laughing, and giving her hand to the postmistress. "So I be," said Mrs Crump. "So I be."
Dax regarded them with the mercilessness of a death-watch; she remembered the time when Hamilton’s excuses for his frequent presence at the post-office had been more voluble than logical. But now he no longer came, and Judith, for all her deliberate flow of spirits, did not quite convince the watchful eyes of Leander’s lady—the postmistress was a trifle too cheerful. "Mrs.
Judith knew that the name of the girl whose letter sent Peter Hamilton vaulting to the saddle was Katherine Colebrooke. There had been a deal of letter-writing between her and the young cow-puncher of late, of which perforce, by a singular irony of fate, the postmistress had been the involuntary instrument.
The letter lay in both her hands, and they rose slowly until they were pressed against her breast. Do you know why that look of elation had come suddenly to her face? It was because he had not even written the address in a disguised hand to deceive the postmistress. So much of the old Grizel was gone that the pathos of her elation over this was lost to her. Several times she almost opened it.
Dare, who's a-stayin' at the inn," said the postmistress to Parker, who was a person of considerable importance in village eyes. "Such a nice old gentleman! He comes from America, where they say he's made a fortune, and he's very liberal with his money." So good a character interested Parker at once in Mr. Dare.
'It's just like her, stuck up as she is since she came from school, setting herself and her family up to be better than other folks. 'Perhaps they were out of them at the store, said a gentler voice. 'Oh, don't tell me. It's on the sly she's doing it, and then pretending to be grander than other folks. Then the postmistress came to the window with the required information.
There was one bright woman among the many in our Seneca Falls literary circle to whom I would give more than a passing notice Mrs. Amelia Bloomer, who represented three novel phases of woman's life. She was assistant postmistress; an editor of a reform paper advocating temperance and woman's rights; and an advocate of the new costume which bore her name!
"Tell her," said the faithful postmistress, winking to her compeers, "to come back the morn at ten o'clock, and I'll let her ken we havena had time to sort the mail letters yet she's aye in sic a hurry, as if her letters were o' mair consequence than the best merchant's o' the town."
"I'm sorry for that," answered the postmistress, gravely; "it's like we maun wait then till the gudeman comes hame, after a' for I wadna like to be responsible in trusting the letter to sic a callant as Jock our Davie belangs in a manner to the office." "Aweel, aweel, Mrs. Mailsetter, I see what ye wad be at but an ye like to risk the bairn, I'll risk the beast." Orders were accordingly given.
And so teamsters, laundresses, scouts, "Indian-bound" Black Hillers, and one or two sauntering soldiers were swarming about the porch and hall-way, and jamming in a compact mass in front of the little window whereat the postmistress behind her vitreous barrier was still at work.
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