And with that he heaved a profound sigh, and turned off in the direction of the post-office.
The former mode of procedure was now changed. Ruby locked up the schoolhouse every day after lesson-time and Postman Chris regularly overtook her on the way home. By mutual consent they avoided the painful subject of the letter and conversed on indifferent topics; and more than once when Chris walked away he muttered to himself: “She be the prettiest, and she be the wittiest, and she be—ah, ’tis a dalled pity I weren’t on the field first.”
One day when the well-known step came up behind Ruby it was accompanied by a shout:—
“Hi!” cried Postman Chris; “hi! Miss Damory! I’ve a-got summat for ye at last.”
Ruby turned towards him without any very great elation, for, if truth be told, a letter from her only correspondent had never caused her heart to beat one tittle faster than its wont. But as Chris came up with an excited face she felt she could do no less than simulate great delight at his news.
“At last!” cried she, holding out her hand for the letter. But Chris did not deliver it up at once. He looked up the road and down the road—it was indeed little more than a lane, and at that hour solitary enough; there was a strange flash in his eye.
“This’ll be the end of all between you and me, I suppose?” said he. “Ye’ll have got your letter, and ye’ll not care for seein’ me come no more. I’ve a mind to make you pay for it.”
Ruby’s extended hand dropped by her side, and she started back.
“Here’s a Fine Thing,” said Postman Chris, still with that gleam in his eye as he held up the letter. “Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; what’s the owner of Fine Thing to do?”
“What do you mean?” whispered Ruby.