"Oh, now, Mrs. Crocker!"
The fat post-mistress was still handling the pile of finger-soiled letters. "Oh, there's one for Mrs. Lamb."
"We are going there. I'll take it."
"Thanks, miss. She's right constant in coming for letters, but the letters they don't come, and now here's one at last." Leila tucked it into her belt. "I tell you, Miss Leila, a post-office is a place to make you laugh one day and cry the next. When you see a girl from the country come here twice a week for maybe two months and then go away trying that hard to make believe it wasn't of any account. There ought to be some one to write 'em letters—just to say, 'Don't cry, he'll come.' It might be a queer letter."
Rivers wondered at the very abrupt and very American introduction of unexpected sentiment and humour.
"Let me know and I'll write them, Mrs. Crocker," cried Leila. She had the very youthful reflection that it was odd for such a fat woman to be sentimental.
"I should like to open all the letters for a week, Mrs. Crocker," said
Rivers.
"Wouldn't Uncle Sam make a row?"
"He would, indeed!"
"Idle curiosity," laughed Leila, as they went out into the storm.