Luckie Jean, busied in making a final scoop all round the bag with her long, thin arm, jerked her head in the direction of a little pile at the end of the counter.
"There you be—twa or three letters, and a newspaper for your maw. That's aal."
Five Grahams hurled themselves simultaneously on the little pile, while Luckie Jean tied the rest up in lots according to their destination. Gavin was there first; he looked and flung them down, one after another in deep disappointment.
"The blue one—that'll be from Cousin Greta—see the crest! The white one with the small, screwgy writing—that's from Uncle Stafford. That's a bill, and this is a newspaper; nothing from Redlands, Joey!"
Joey bit back a little gulp of disappointment.
"I didn't really think there would be," she said. "Can we leave any more letters for you on our way, Luckie Jean?"
"Ye'll mind not to get playing and forgetting of them?" asked the careful postmistress, and as she spoke she put a tied-together packet into Joey's hand. The string was insecurely fastened, and the eight or nine letters came to the floor in a heap—all except one, the bottom one, which stayed in Joey's hand. Luckie Jean's heading had been at fault again, for this letter—mixed up with Sir Henry Martyn's, and Miss Martyn's, and Captain Kingston's—was directed quite distinctly to:
Miss Jocelyn Graham,
Pilot Cottage,