Gavan, like the postman, attributed his good luck to Eppie’s love of importance, and only on the third morning discovered her manœuver.
He came down early himself to get his own letter, found that the mail had not arrived, and, strolling disappointedly down the drive, was almost knocked down by Eppie rushing in at the gate. She fell back, dismayed at the revelation that must force the fullness of her sympathy upon him—almost as if she herself glanced in at the place of meeting.
“I’ve got the letters,” she said, leaning on the stone pillar and recovering her breath. “There’s one for you.” And she held it out.
But for once Gavan’s concentration seemed to be for her rather than for the letter. “My mother’s letter?” he said.
She nodded.
“It was you, then. I wondered why they came so much earlier.”
“I met the postman; he likes to be saved that much of his walk.”
“You must have to go a long way to get them so early. You went on purpose for me, I think.”
Looking aside, she now had to own: “I saw that you hated reading them before us all. I would hate it, too.”
“Eppie, my dearest Eppie,” said Gavan. Glancing at him, she saw tears in his eyes, and joy and pride flamed up in her. He opened the letter and read it, walking beside her, his hand on her shoulder, showing her that he did not count her among “us all.”