Poppea of the Post-Office

by Mabel Osgood Wright

"He asked you how far it was to Harley's Mills Post-office?" said Gilbert. "Then wherever they came from and whoever they are, they meant to leave the child here, it wasn't mere chance. Do you hear that, all?"

"Yes," answered the Justice of the Peace; "but as you've said that you have no kin that she could come from, mightn't she be of some distant kin Down East of old Curtis's, who didn't know he was dead? He'd had the office about ever since there was one and was reputed rich, you know."

Gilbert winced as though some one had rudely touched a vital spot, and then, turning to the First Selectman, said quietly: "I don't know whether it's law or not, but I think a notice should be put in the best county paper. I reckon those from whom the child was stolen should have as much chance to know of it as if one of us had found a good horse tied at his gate. Then in a month's time, if there is no clew, other plans can be made. Meantime, as it seems she was left here with intention, sister Pegrim and I will look after her."

"That's well said—liberal too, for a man of your years—with prices what they are—" were some of the comments.

"That'll do for the present," said the First Selectman, gathering his gray long-shawl about him and steadying himself with his cane; "but we have a mystery among us for the first time, boys, and we must not treat it lightly. If Mr. Allan Pinkerton was not at this time needed by Mr. Lincoln, I should vote that we put the case before him."

Then, led by 'Lisha Potts, who announced that he was going to finish the day by asking a few questions at the Bridgeton station, the group, having already shortened their working day by a couple of hours, drifted away.

Oliver Gilbert watched them go, and mechanically took his seat before the sorting table. He was dizzy from lack of sleep and the rush of many emotions that he had almost forgotten he had ever felt before, blended with others wholly new. His life had been slow in blossoming, the crippled hip from his very childhood had kept him aloof and apart. Then he had lived in the full for three years and twilight again fell around him; for a while he had struggled against it, and then, as the neighbors said, "become resigned." Now, everything was upheaved; work, his consoler, lay on the bench untouched; the sun melted the ice from the halyards, and yet he did not go to raise the flag of victory where it must be seen from John Angus's windows. The hour struck and then the next before noon; he did not even remember that he had not eaten breakfast. Presently the outer door opened and a pair of small, heavily shod feet clumped across to the delivery-window, through which their owner could not look, even on tiptoes, and after waiting for a few moments, the piping voice of a boy of six or so called, "It's me, Mr. Gilbert. I've come over to see your little girl, please."

Gilbert started from his revery and came toward the voice. "Oh, it's you, is it, Hughey, and who told you about her, pray?"

"Nobody told me 'xactly, but I heard Mr. Morse telling father and mother, and I asked her if I might come right down, and she said yes. You see, there wasn't any school this morning because it was too slippery, but now it's all wet. Broken for spring, father says. See my new rubber-boots, Mr. Gilbert; all red inside," and he held up one sturdy leg.

"As it's so close on to noon I guess I'll shut up, and we'll go in together and see little missy. Isn't this about the time of day for a barley stick, sonny?" said the postmaster, taking one from the glass case as he passed.