"Si Safford! do you mean to tell me you've been postmaster for fourteen year an' ain't never noticed that Elmiry Ann Rogers gets a valentine every year?"
"No," replied Silas, turning to meet a customer, "I ain't never noticed it."
"Men do be the beatenest," exclaimed Aurelia under her breath.
"Evenin', Mr. Weeks."
"Evenin' Mis' Safford."
"Moderatin' any?"
"Nope, looks like snow, but I reckon it's too cold."
For perhaps ten minutes the two men talked the dull aimless commonplaces of the country store. The single lamp with a reflector behind it, made all three faces unlovely and old. John Weeks was a tall strapping fellow, slightly stooped, and about fifty years old. His hair was grey at the temples, but his eyes had a kindly twinkle that bid defiance to time.
He bought some brown sugar and went out. One could not blame him for seeking other surroundings, for even at its best, the post-office and general store at The Corners was a gloomy place.
Two well-worn steps that creaked noisily were the links between it and the street. The door opened by an old-fashioned latch, worn with much handling, and inside, a motley smell greeted the inquiring nostril unwonted to the place.