"Miss Darrell!" he cries, in a sort of rapture. "Who'd a thought it? So early in the morning, and without an umbrella! How's your pa and ma, and all the children?"
"My pa and ma, and all the children are well of course," the young lady answers, impatiently, as though it were out of the nature of things for anything to ail her family. "Mr. Doolittle, I want six yards of crash for kitchen towels, three pairs of shoes for the children, and two yards and a half of stone-colored ribbon for Mrs. Darrell's drab bonnet. And be quick."
The blushes and emotion of young Mr. Doolittle, it was quite evident, were entirely thrown away upon Miss Darrell. "Not at home to lovers," was plainly written on her moody brow and impatient lips. So Mr. Doolittle produced the crash and cut off the six yards, the three pairs of shoes were picked out, and the stoniest of the stone colors chosen, the parcel tied up and paid for.
"We didn't see you up to Squire Whipple's surprise party last night, Miss Edith," Mr. Doolittle timidly ventured, with a strong "Down East" accent. "We had a hunky supper and a rale good time."
"No, you didn't see me, Mr. Doolittle, and I don't think you're likely to in a hurry, either. The deadly liveliness of Sandypoint surprise parties, and the beauty of Sandypoint, and its beastly weather are about on a par—the parties, if anything, the most dismal of the three."
With which the young lady went out with a cool parting nod. There was one more errand to go—this one for herself. It was to the post-office, and even the old post-master lit up into a smile of welcome at sight of his visitor. It was evident, that when in good temper Miss Darrell must be rather a favorite in the neighborhood.
"Letters for you? Well, yes, Miss Edie, I think there is. What's this?
Miss Edith S. Darrell, Sandypoint Mass. That's for you, and from New
York again, I see. Ah! I hope none o' them York chaps will be coming
down here to carry away the best-lookin' gal in town."
He handed her the letter. For a moment her dark face lit up with an eager flush; as she took the letter it fell. It was superscribed in a girl's spidery tracery, sealed with blue wax, and a sentimental French seal and motto.
"From Trixy," she said, under her breath; "and I felt sure there would be one from—Are you sure this is all, Mr. Merriweather? I expected another."
"Sure and certain, Miss Edie. Sorry to disappoint you, but that's all.
Never mind, my dear—he'll write by next mail."