The morning mail for Dunford was usually in the post-office by a quarter to seven. It was conveyed from the train by Sam, the postman, a little stout person with a grey military moustache, whose age, according to his own statement, was “forty-nine and a bit.” It had been that for a good many years. With Sam’s assistance Kitty was wont to sort the letters, and the two had become staunch friends, though no very serious confidences had been exchanged.
In the midst of the sorting this morning Sam suddenly remarked that Mr. Colin Hayward had not made a long stay with his people.
“I seen him at the station,” he continued. “I couldna say where he was bound for, but he had a pickle luggage, and he wasna looking extra cheery. Been getting lectured for no passing his examination, I suppose. Poor lad, I’m vexed for him. He never got on with his folk, and he’s the only real gentleman in the family. They’re a cauld-hearted stuck-up lot. Him an’ me used often to gang fishing—that was afore your time, Miss—and a kinder, blither chap I never hope to meet. Well, well, if he’s the black sheep, the others ha’ used a queer lot o’ whitewash.”
Kitty felt that she was expected to say something, but just then Sam came on an address that required deciphering, and the subject dropped, not a little to her relief.
When the sorting was finished, Sam set out on his round, and she made her way to the cottage for breakfast. Her uncle was already at table looking more than usually morose; her aunt was muttering to something on the stove—a habit of hers when annoyed. Kitty perceived that she was still in disgrace, and her heart sank. After all, those two people constituted her whole kin, and she would have pleased them had it been possible, if only for the sake of peace and cheerfulness. More, she would have loved them had they given her the slightest encouragement.
Mr. Corrie took no notice of his niece as she approached her accustomed seat. To his sister he growled over his shoulder—
“The paper’s late again! I’ve a good mind to start selling newspapers myself. That woman seems to think she can play wi’ her customers just because she’s a widow.”
“I’ll speak to her,” said Miss Corrie, coming over with a dish of bacon.
“Tell her she had best bring the paper here—or send it—within five minutes o’ the train’s arrival. D’ye hear?”
“Ay, I hear ye, John. Take yer breakfast now, and ha’ patience for the paper.”