“She'll write,” he told himself. “When she's mending a bit she'll aise our mind and write. 'Dear ould Pete, excuse me for not writing afore'—that'll he the way of it. Aw, trust her, trust her.”
But day followed day, and no letter came from Kate. Ten evenings running he smoked over the gate, leisurely, largely, almost languidly, hut always watching for the peak of the postman's cap as it turned the corner by the Court-house, and following the toes of his foot as they stepped off the curb, to see if they pointed in his direction—and then turning aside with a deep breath and a smothered moan that ended in a rattle of the throat and a pretence at spitting.
The postman saw him as he went by, and his little eyes twinkled treacherously.
“Nothing for you yet, Capt'n,” he said at length.
“Chut!” said Pete, with a mighty puff of smoke; “my business isn't done by correspondence, Mr. Kelly.”
“Aw, no; but when a man's wife's away——” began the postman.
“Oh, I see,” said Pete, with a look of intelligence, and then, with a lofty wave of the hand, “She's like her husband, Mr. Kelly—not bothering much with letters at all.”
“You'll be longing for a line, though, Capt'n—that's only natural.”
“No news is good news—I can lave it with her.”
“Of coorse, that's truth enough, yes! But still and for all, a taste of a letter—it's doing no harm, Capt'n—aisy writ, too, and sweet to get sometimes, you know—shows a woman isn't forgetting a man when she's away.”