'Why,' these envelopes want to know, 'why are the letters that we brought laid so respectfully on your desk whilst we, to whom you are so much indebted, are crushed and mangled and tossed disdainfully aside? Isn't an envelope as good as a letter any day?'
There is justice in their contention, and I take up my pen that I may tender them an apology. A letter will tell you much; but the envelope will often tell you more. I remember sitting with John Broadbanks one autumn afternoon on the broad verandah of the Mosgiel Manse. Some important meetings were to be held next day, and he had driven over to help me in my preparations for them. He had, moreover, arranged to stay the night. As we made our way through the various papers that would have to be dealt with next day, the gate swung open and the postman placed a budget of letters in my hand.
'Hullo!' I exclaimed, 'an English mail!' And, excusing myself from the business on hand, I lost myself in the letters from Home.
I noticed that, when we returned to the agenda paper and reports, John did not seem as keen as usual. He went through the documents mechanically, languidly, perfunctorily, allowing several matters to pass that, ordinarily, he would have questioned. He gave me the impression of having something on his mind, and it was not until we all sat round the tea-table that I grasped the situation. Then he opened his heart to us.
'I am very sorry,' he said, 'but if you'll let me, I think I had better return to Silverstream this evening after all. The arrival of the English mail makes all the difference. You have your letters; mine are waiting for me at the Manse. When I last heard from Home, my mother was very ill; I have spent an anxious month waiting for the letter that has evidently arrived to-day; and I do not feel that I can settle down to to-morrow's business until I have seen it.'
The announcement was greeted with demonstrations of general disappointment. John was a universal favorite; he was the nearest approach to a relative that the children had ever known; and the prospect of having him in the house until bedtime, and of finding him still on the premises when they awoke in the morning, had occasioned the wildest excitement. And now the beautiful dream was about to be shattered!
'I tell you what, John,' I said, going to the window and looking out, 'it's going to be a perfect moonlight night. Spend an hour with the children after tea, and then I'll drive over to Silverstream with you. If all's well, we can return together. If not, we shall understand.'
When, after a sharp cold drive in the moonlight, we reached the Silverstream Manse, things took an unexpected turn.
'Mrs. Broadbanks has gone out,' the maid explained. 'The English mail arrived this afternoon and she said you would be anxious to get your Home letter. She took it with her and said that she would try to get it posted this evening so that you would get it first thing in the morning. And I think she intended to look in at Mrs. Blackie's before she returned and inquire about Alec's broken leg. I know she took some jellies with her.'
It was now John's turn to be disappointed. He had had his journey for nothing; indeed, as things now stood he would be nearer to the letter at Mosgiel than at Silverstream. Then an idea occurred to him.