“Thank you. . . . But, my dear sister, where are your manners?”
It was Hilda’s turn to blush. “Oh, Miss Carstairs, do forgive me! That wretched man put everything out of my head. Let me introduce my brother, Mr. Risk—Miss Carstairs.”
Mr. Risk held out his hand—apparently he had forgotten his costume—and the embarrassed girl could not but take it.
“I never wonder at my sister making friends,” he said pleasantly, “but I do marvel that she keeps any. Well, Hilda, won’t you and Miss Carstairs stay and take breakfast with me?”
“Impossible—thanks all the same. Good-bye, John, and don’t forget the name.”
“I will,” he retorted teasingly, “and treat all inquiring gentlemen as you requested.”
Hilda went laughing into the lift, and Kitty, feeling the friendly clasp of her arm, smiled almost happily.
CHAPTER VIII
At the same hour, some four hundred miles away, Kitty’s absence was being felt. It was time to open the post office, and John Corrie was realizing that he would have more than enough to do until he secured a new assistant—whom he would have to pay!
Corrie had just opened the shop. Outside the boy was cleaning the windows; inside Miss Corrie was setting things straight on the provision counter. He himself was bending at the open safe, taking out the usual supplies of silver and copper for the tills. These were contained in ancient battered pewter mugs, and now he laid the mugs on the floor preparatory to closing and locking up the safe.