This letter, ill-spelled as it was, seemed to give Aaron Wolverton unbounded satisfaction. A gratified smile overspread his face, and he said to himself: "That will bring down the Burton pride. That young whipper-snapper will come home with a few less airs than when he set out. The chances are that he'll have to walk home or buy a passage."
Wolverton chuckled at this agreeable thought. He would be revenged upon poor Bob for all the mortifications to which the boy had subjected him: and, to a man of Wolverton's temperament, revenge was sweet.
"You have received good news, Mr. Wolverton," said the postmaster, observing the land agent's evident glee.
"What makes you think so?" asked Wolverton, cautiously.
"I judged from your smiling face."
"It wasn't the letter. I was thinking of something."
"That is only a blind," thought the postmaster. "I saw his face light up when he read the letter. Let me see; it was mailed from Rocky Creek. I will bear that in mind, and some day I may discover the secret."
As Wolverton picked his way through the mud from the post-office to his office, he fell in with Mrs. Burton, who had come to the village on business. He smiled to himself, and prepared to accost her.
"I hope I see you well, Mrs. Burton," he said, with gravity.
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Wolverton," answered the widow, coldly.