His mother dived into the depths of a capacious pocket, and opening a very bulgy purse, produced the required stamp.
“There you are,” she said graciously; “I hope you have written her a nice letter.”
“Oh yes, mother!”
“Well, leave it outside on the hall table. I have some letters to write too, and they can all go together.”
Boy obeyed. He would have liked to go and post his letter himself, but his conscience told him that were he to ask to do so it would look like doubting his mother’s integrity.
“It will be all right!” he said to himself, though there was just a little sinking at his heart as he placed it where he had been told. “Mother wouldn’t touch it.”
He hung about for a while, looking at the precious epistle, which to him involved so much, till, hearing his little shuffling feet in the hall, Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir grew impatient.
“Boy!” she called.
“Yes, mother.”
“Come here. I want you to wind off this worsted for me.”