Often he would say: "I'm afraid not, but here—you take these letters and look through 'em and make sure."
Ann would take them in her hands, trembling with eagerness, and run indoors to the candlelight, and look them over. Always she came back with the little bundle of letters very slowly as if her disappointment were a heavy burden.
"There'll he one next mail if I have to write it myself," Abe said one morning in October as he went on.
To Harry Needles who was with him that morning he said:
"I wonder why that fellow don't write to Ann. I couldn't believe that he has been fooling her but now I don't know what to think of him. Every day I have to deliver a blow that makes her a little paler and thinner. It hurts me like smashing a finger nail. I wonder what has happened to the fellow."
The mail stage was late that evening. As it had not come at nine Mr. Hill went home and left Abe in the store to wait for his mail. The stage arrived a few minutes later. It came as usual in a cloud of dust and a thunder of wheels and hoofs mingled with the crack of the lash, the driver saving his horses for this little display of pride and pomp on arriving at a village. Abe examined the little bundle of letters and newspapers which the driver had left with him. Then he took a paper and sat down to read in the firelight. While he was thus engaged the door opened softly and Ann Rutledge entered. The Postmaster was not aware of her presence until she touched his arm.
"Please give me a letter," she said.
"Sit down, Ann," said he, very gently, as he placed a chair in the fire-glow.
She took it, turning toward him with a look of fear and hope. Then he added:
"I'm sorry but the truth is it didn't come."