[CHAPTER III.]
Love not, love not, the thing you love may change.
What general interest is excited by the arrival of the post. Who ever settled himself in a new place, for the shortest time, without making himself acquainted with its details, the time when it arrives and leaves? And who ever entirely loses this interest, spite of its often more than daily occurrence? There is no sameness in it, because there is no certainty.
Letters only came to Aston twice in a week, and then they were brought by a man—who could hardly be dignified by the title of postman—at some uncertain time in the middle of the day.
On these days the road by which he came was an object of interest to Mabel and her sister, and they often walked in that direction to secure any letters there might be for them, without waiting for their tardy delivery. They were often joined by Mr. Ware on the same errand, and that afternoon they overtook him as he was leisurely mounting the first hill on the road.
"Well, young ladies," said he, greeting them with a smile, "we are all going to meet the postman as usual I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mabel, "the post always seems to have sufficient interest to make even you choose this road on Tuesdays and Fridays."
"Well, I confess," he replied, "I always have great pleasure in seeing the man turn the corner, besides, as he is so uncertain, one is tempted to take a longer walk, expecting to see him every moment."
"Yes," said Mabel, "we almost always meet him, and yet there is seldom more than the possibility of a letter after all."
"My hopes are not quite so indefinite," said Mr. Ware, "I am always certain of a paper, which is often worth more to me than a letter. I used to think when a person took great interest in the post it was a sign that they were not quite happy at home or in themselves."