If Ruby had been pale before, she was rosy enough now.
“What do you mean?” she stammered; “what makes you say that?”
“I thought you mid be disapp’inted-like about that letter,” responded the postman.
“Oh, the letter. Yes—’tis very strange it doesn’t come.”
“Well, it’s none o’ my fault,” retorted Chris roughly. “Ye needn’t look at me like that. I’d bring it to ye fast enough if ’twas there.”
“Well, of course—I never thought you wouldn’t. I’m sure I never said anything——” cried poor Ruby, more and more agitated.
“Ye shouldn’t go frettin’ yourself though,” he remarked. “That won’t make it come any faster. And you shouldn’t blame me.”
“I don’t blame you,” gasped the girl. “I don’t—indeed I don’t”—but here, in spite of herself, her voice was lost in a burst of sobs.
Postman Chris set down his bag and produced a khaki pocket handkerchief—a relic no doubt of South African days. This he tendered very gallantly to Ruby, who, if truth be told, was at that moment at a loss for one, having used her own to wipe out a particularly impracticable sum from a small pupil’s slate.
She accepted the offering in the spirit in which it was meant, dried her eyes, and returned the handkerchief to the postman with a watery smile. At that smile Chris changed colour, but he tucked away the handkerchief in his sleeve without a word, respectfully saluted, and departed. He never looked back at the girl, but as he walked away he said to himself: “That there maid, she be all I thought her. ’Tis a pity I didn’t see her afore she took up wi’ t’other chap. I wouldn’t ha’ left her a-pinin’ so long, and a-waitin’ and a-waitin’ for a letter what never comes. But she’ll stick to him—ah, sure she’ll stick to him.”