Some hours later, my lovers, feeling as John wickedly quoted, that "the world is too much with us," rode into Westways to get Billy's neglected mail.
Mr. Crocker, lean and deaf, at ease in charge of the grocery counter, sat unoccupied in his shirt sleeves, while Mrs. Crocker bent over the mail she had sorted. There were letters for the little group of village folk, who read them at once as they sat on the step or as they moved away stumbling along the sidewalk.
Mrs. Crocker sallied out with a batch of letters. "Quite a lot, Captain.
Good-morning, Leila."
"Mail these, Mrs. Crocker," said the travellers fresh from fairyland.
"I saw some was from the Squire and some from Mrs. Penhallow—Squire's writing better."
"You wicked Mrs. Crocker," said John, "how much you pick up of folk's secrets, I should like to know—"
"Secrets!" laughed Leila. "They can't be read on the outside of letters."
Then Mrs. Crocker on the sidewalk to them on horseback began to talk.
John seeing that Leila was interested and amused sat still and listened.
"Secrets," exclaimed the post-mistress, "ain't all inside of letters. They're on the envelopes sometimes. Oh! I've seen 'em in war time, letters that looked like they'd been out in the rain—sort of blistered; and people here in those days just tore open their letters and laughed or cried." Mrs. Crocker caught her breath and paused.
"I know, John," said Leila in a low aside.