“Obstinate as the grave,” muttered he.
Dame Sym did not hear; she had turned away to serve a child who came in for some toffee. Mr. Preen waited.
“When will the letter go?” he asked, as the child went out.
“By to-morrow’s day mail, sir. It will be delivered at Islip—I think you said Islip, Mr. Preen—about half-past four, or so, in the afternoon.”
“Is the delay of much consequence, sir?” inquired Oliver, as he and his father turned out of the shop.
“No,” said Mr. Preen. “Only I hate letters to be delayed uselessly in the post.”
Tea was waiting when they got in. A mutton chop was served with it for Mr. Preen, as he had lost his dinner. Jane ran downstairs, drank a cup of tea in haste, and ran back again. She had been busy in her bedroom all day, smartening-up a dress. A picnic was to be held on Thursday, the next day but one; Jane and Oliver were invited to it, and Jane wanted to look as well as other girls.
After tea Oliver sat for ever so long at the open window, reading the Worcester Journal. He then strolled out to the Inlets, sauntered beside the brook, and presently threw himself listlessly upon one of the benches facing it. The sun shone right upon his face there, so he tilted his straw hat over his eyes. That did not do, and he moved to another bench which the trees shaded. He often felt lonely and weary now; this evening especially so; even Jane was not with him.
His thoughts turned to Emma Paul; and a glow, bright as the declining sun rays, shot up in his heart. As long as she filled it, he could not be all gloom.