"
"There's Joshua now," Aunt Mary exclaimed, presently, "I see him turnin'
in the gate. He'll be at the door before you get there, Lucinda,--he will.
There, he's twistin' his wheel off. He's tryin' to hold Billy an' hold the
letters an' whistle, all at once. Why don't you go to him, Lucinda? Can't
you hear a whistle that I can see? Or, if you can't hear the whistle,
can't you hear me? Do you think whoever wrote those letters would be much
pleased if they could see you so slow about gettin' them? Do--"
Just here the old lady, turning toward Lucinda, perceived that she had
been gone--Heaven knew how long. She felt decidedly vexed at finding
herself to be in the wrong, rubbed her nose impatiently, and waited in a
temper to match the rubbing.
"My Lord! how slow she is!" she thought. "Well, if I don't die of old age
first, I presume I'll get my letters some time. Maybe."
As a matter of fact, the door had blown shut behind Lucinda, and the
latter personage was making her way, with well-hoisted skirts, around the
house to the back door. She didn't pass the window where the Argus-eyed
was looking forth; because that lady had strong opinions of those who let
doors bang behind them without their own volition.
Five minutes later the maid did finally appear with one letter.
"I thought you was waitin' to bring to-morrow's mail at the same time,"
said Aunt Mary, icily.
Then she found that the letter was from Jack, and Lucinda was completely
forgotten in the pleasure of opening and reading it.
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