“Anything from the post office to-day, sir?”
“Yes, marser. Bob, he went to de post office an’ fotch de bag.”
“Then where is it, you scoundrel? and why was it not brought to me?” stamped the master.
“De-ur-ur——” stammered the negro, in fear and perplexity, scratching his head for an answer.
“Sir!” thundered General Garnet.
And the reply bolted from the lips of the negro as if thumped out by a blow between his shoulders:
“Ugh! Yes, sir! You wan’t comed home when it ’riv, marser, an’ I hanged it on a chair by de liberry table, where you could see it when you comed.”
“And if I had forgotten all about it, as I did, you scoundrel! Go and bring it to me. Vanish!”
The man precipitately retreated, and soon reappeared with the mail-bag, which he placed in the hands of his master, who immediately opened and turned out its contents.
“Only one letter! And that—— D——!” exclaimed General Garnet, recognizing the handwriting of Magnus Hardcastle in the superscription of Alice’s letter. “Here, you sir! Come here!” added he, hastily blotting out the superscription and re-directing it. “Come here! take this letter! By the earliest dawn to-morrow take it back to the post office, that it may be in time for the mail, and tell the postmaster to send it back where it came from.” He tossed the letter toward the feet of the negro, who tremblingly approached, picked it up, and retired from the chamber.