CHAPTER VIII.
THE MAIL
"Still raining, Phil?" asked Mrs. Merryweather, looking up from her writing.
"Still, honored parent! or rather, to be exact, anything but still. Up on the hill, the wind is fierce. I had to ride round the blast once or twice, instead of going through it. Solid old wind, that!"
He threw off his dripping oilskin jacket, and came in, unslinging the letter-bag from his shoulder as he came.
"Letters! letters!" he cried. "Who wants letters?"
Every one gathered around him, holding out eager hands.
"One for me, Phil!"