The postman was coming up the street and Sally stood on the doorstep waiting for him.
His whistle sounded loud and shrill, slowly, house by house, he drew near, and at last with a smile and a tap on Sally’s head, he put a letter into her hands and bade her give it to her mother before she lost it.
This was an old joke between the postman and Sally that never failed to make them both laugh.
‘Just as if I would lose a letter,’ thought Sally to herself as she went into the house, ‘when I am almost six years old.’
‘Mother,’ she called, climbing the stairs, ‘Mother, here is a letter for you.’
And as Mother dropped her sewing into her lap, Sally placed the letter squarely in her mother’s hands.
‘There now,’ said she with a triumphant nod, ‘I didn’t lose that letter, did I?’
Mother absently shook her head. She was reading her letter and smiling as she read.
‘Who wrote it?’ asked Sally, pressing against Mother’s knee.
‘Aunt Sarah Waters,’ was Mother’s reply.