“The same to you, Marie-Celeste,” replies the gray-coated newcomer, clasping the little, friendly hand in his.
“And how did it come out?” she asks in the next breath.
“It came out all right,” and Mr. Hartley leaned back and rested both elbows on the rail behind him.
“I knew you would win,” said Marie-Celeste complacently; “I felt perfectly sure of it, Chris.”
“And what is more, Bradford came in second.”
“You don't mean it!” for Bradford was assistant postman on the route that included the Terrace, and Marie-Celeste was naturally quite overwhelmed at the thought that both their men should have won. The winning in question had occurred at a foot-race the night before, an accomplishment somewhat in the line of the daily training of the average postman, and for which Christopher Hartley in particular had long shown a special aptitude.
“It was quite a big prize, wasn't it?” questioned Marie-Celeste, really longing to know the exact amount; but Mr. Hartley, not divining that, simply answered, his kind face radiant as a boy's, “The largest yet, Marie-Celeste—enough to take me home for two months this summer, and pay Bradford, besides, for doing double work while I'm gone. He can manage the route easily; the mails fall off more than half in the summer, you know.”