"Bet she's expecting word from Gaston."
Tate moistened his dirty fingers, and shuffled the envelopes.
"Here's five or six for Gaston hisself—one done up with a broad streak of black round it. It's got a dreadful thick envelope! Well, if I ain't blowed. Here is one for Joyce, and did you ever?" Billy was beside him now. "Done in printing. Well, if that don't beat the Injuns. Mis' Joyce Lauzoon—that's good, Lauzoon! No wonder it didn't strike me first; I guess I read it Jude Lauzoon. Here, you want to tote it up the hill? Shouldn't wonder if it was from Jude. If he's got over his sulks, and finds no one to do for him, it's just like him to wheedle his woman into coming back and—beginning all over."
Billy had grasped the letter with trembling hands. He was breathing short and hard. Jared had evidently written the letter before talking to Jude.
"Do you know who that's from?" Tate eyed the boy suspiciously.
"How should I?" Billy impudently turned away, "I ain't Postmaster, am I?"
Tate glared after the fleeing figure. He did not like the sense of insecurity that pervaded St. Angé. If coming events cast their shadows before, then Tate's future looked as if it might be one encompassed by darkness.
When Billy reached Gaston's shack a silence of desolation pervaded it. Had all reputable St. Angé gone a-visiting?
Jock's absence, and now Joyce's, gave Billy a creepy feeling such as a cat must feel who has been deserted by them he trusted.
But there had been no fire in Filmer's shack; on Gaston's hearth a roaring, recently builded fire gave evidence of late companionship.