"I guess I trailed it through some o' the drifts," he remarked. "The road's pretty narrer, this season o' the year."
"You give us a real start," said Susan. "We thought be sure 't was Solomon, an' mebbe the Queen o' Sheba follerin' arter. Why, Solon Slade, you ain't walked way over to Tiverton Street!"
"Yes, I have," asserted Solon. He was a slender, sad-colored man, possibly of her own age, and he spoke in a very soft voice. He was Susan's widowed brother-in-law, and the neighbors said he was clever, but hadn't no more spunk'n a wet rag.
Susan had risen and laid down her knitting. She approached the table and rested one hand on it, a hawk-like brightness in her eyes.
"What you got in that bag?" asked she.
Solon was enjoying his certainty that he held the key to the situation.
"I got a mite o' cheese," he answered, approaching the fire and spreading his hands to the blaze.
"You got anything else? Now, Solon, don't you keep me here on tenter-hooks! You got a letter?"
"Well," said Solon, "I thought I might as well look into the post-office an' see."
"You thought so! You went a-purpose! An' you walked because you al'ays was half shackled about takin' horses out in bad goin'. You hand me over that letter!"