"Be the mail come?"
Billy looked up from his seat by the roaring fire in the post-office. An old woman had come in. There was a strange light in her eyes—the light of a hope which survives, spite of repeated disappointment.
"Sure, Aunt Esther; 'tis here at last."
"Be there a letter for me?"
Billy hoped that there was. He longed to see those gentle eyes shine—to see the famished look disappear.
"No, Aunt Esther; 'tis not come yet. Maybe 'twill come next——"
"Sure, I've waited these three year," she said, with a trembling lip. "'Tis from me son——"
"Ha!" cried the postmaster. "What's this? 'Tis all blurred by the water. 'Missus E—s—B—l—g—e—l.' Sure, 'tis you, woman. 'Tis a letter for you at last!"
"'Tis from me son!" the old woman muttered eagerly. "'Tis t' tell me where he is, an'—an'—when he's comin' home. Thank God, the mail came safe the night."
What if Billy had left the mail-bag to soak and sink in the waters of the bay? What if he had failed in his duty to the people? How many other such letters might there not be in that bag for the mothers and fathers of the northern ports?