"O, some of them are returned to the sender, some go to the dead-letter office, and others are just destroyed, I guess."
"Oh!" Peace had received all the information she needed, and as St. John now appeared at the gate with Glen in tow and Baby Bessie in his arms, she turned her attention to her guests, who, as a special surprise for the invalid, had been invited to stay for dinner.
The next day, however, when the postman made his appearance with his arms bulging with packages, and a grin of amusement stretching his mouth from ear to ear, he was astounded to hear the little lady in the wheel-chair say crisply, "Take 'em all back. I won't receive another one you bring me. I s'pose there is postage to pay on most of 'em, too, ain't there?"
"Fifteen cents," he acknowledged.
"Well, this is the time you don't get your fifteen cents," she announced calmly but with decision.
"But I can't deliver these packages until that is paid."
"Goody! I'm tired of the sight of them. The very looks of you coming up the walk gives me a pain. Don't bring me another single package. Take them back to the—the letter undertaker—"
"The what?" His eyes were twinkling, and he had hard work to keep his twitching lips from breaking into an audible chuckle.
"The place you send mail when it ain't wanted by the person it's supposed to go to. I've had all I care to do with chain letters. I really didn't think they were endless or I never would have started mine. We've got buttons enough to start a department store already."
The light of understanding broke over the postman's rugged features. "So it was a chain letter, was it?"