'No letter. No.'
'Tant mieux, I hate them,' said the captain. 'I wonder how my sister is this morning.'
'Would you like a messenger? I'll send down with pleasure to enquire.'
'Thank you, no; I'll walk down and see her.'
And Lake yawned at the window, and then took his hat and stick and sauntered toward Gylingden. At the post-office window he tapped with the silver tip of his cane, and told Miss Driver with a sleepy smile—
'I'm going down to Redman's Farm, and any letters for my sister, Miss
Lake, I may as well take with me.'
Everybody 'in business' in the town of Gylingden, by this time, knew Captain Lake and his belongings—a most respectable party—a high man; and, of course, there was no difficulty. There was only one letter—the address was written—'Miss Lake, Redman's Farm, near Brandon Park, Gylingden,' in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards.
Captain Lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her face gently, and smiled, and thanked her in his graceful way—and, in fact, left an enduring impression upon that impressible nature.
Turning up the dark road at Redman's Dell, the gallant captain passed the old mill, and, all being quiet up and down the road, he halted under the lordly shadow of a clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter he had just taken charge of. It contained only these words:—
'Wednesday.