He grasped the iron railing with a convulsive grip, as though a sudden pang had shot through him, and then, by a great effort, he drew himself up to his full height; his pale and haggard face grew paler as he turned it upwards, and his bloodless lips trembled as they muttered some indistinct syllables; then turning about, he brushed abruptly past the few who stood around, and walked away.
He had not gone many paces when a boy overtook him, saying, “Come back, sir; the postmaster has two letters for you.”
Dalton looked stealthily at either side, to be sure that the speech was addressed to him, and, with a fierceness that startled the boy, said, “You're certain they're for me?”
“Yes, yes; all right,—here they are,” cried the postmaster from the window. “One, a soldier's letter from Munich, and free. The other is a heavier packet, and costs four florins and twelve kreutzers.”
“I must be satisfied with this one, then,” said Dalton, “till I go back for money. I brought no change out with me.”
“No matter: you can send it,” said the other.
“Maybe it's not so easy as you think,” muttered Dalton to himself; while he added, aloud, “Very well, I'll do so, and thank you.” And he clutched the two letters, and pressed them to his bosom.
With hurried steps he now paced homewards, but, stopping at every instant, he drew forth the packets to gaze at them, and be certain that no self-deception was over him, and that his possession was real and tangible. His gait grew more firm, as he went, and his tread, as he mounted the stairs, sounded assured and steady.
“You have a letter, father dearest,” cried Nelly, as she flung wide the door. “I saw you crossing the Platz, and I know, from your walk, that you've got one.”
“No, but better, Nelly—I 've two. That's from Frank; and here's Kate's, and a bulky one—four florins twelve—devil a less.”