So he was, long before Henrietta was ready, and just as she and Beatrice appeared on the stairs, Atkins was carrying across the hall what the boys looked at with glances of dismay, namely, the post-bag. Knight Sutton, being small and remote, did not possess a post-office, but a messenger came from Allonfield for the letters on every day except Sunday, and returned again in the space of an hour. A very inconvenient arrangement, as everyone had said for the last twenty years, and might probably say for twenty years more.
As usual, more than half the contents were for G. Langford, Esq., and Fred’s face grew longer and longer as he saw the closely-written business-like sheets.
“Fred, my poor fellow,” said his uncle, looking up, “I am sorry for you, but one or two must be answered by this day’s post. I will not be longer than I can help.”
“Then do let us come on,” exclaimed the chorus.
“Come, Queenie,” added Alex.
She delayed, however, saying, “Can I do any good, papa?”
“Thank you, let me see. I do not like to stop you, but it would save time if you could just copy a letter.”
“O thank you, pray let me,” said Beatrice, delighted. “Go on, Henrietta, I shall soon come.”
Henrietta would have waited, but she saw a chance of speaking to her brother, which she did not like to lose.
Her mother had taken advantage of the various conversations going on in the hall, to draw her son aside, saying, “Freddy, I believe you think me very troublesome, but do let me entreat of you not to venture on the ice till one of your uncles has said it is safe.”