out the door of the
post-office. The busy men would come later, when the mail was sorted;
but this was the supreme hour of the loungers. They did not often get
letters themselves, but it was very important that they should see who
_did_ get letters; and most of them had a newspaper to look for. Then
the joy of leaning against the door-posts, and waiting to see if
anything would happen! As a rule, nothing did happen, but there was no
knowing what joyful day might bring a new sensation. Sometimes there was
a dog-fight. Once--thrilling recollection!--Ozias Brisket's horse had
run away ("Think 't 's likely a bumble-bee must ha' stung him; couldn't
nothin' else ha' stirred him out of a walk, haw! haw!") and had
scattered the joints of meat all about the street.

To-day there seemed little chance of any awakening event beyond the
arrival of the green cart. It was very warm; the patient post-supporters
were nearly asleep. Their yellow dogs slumbered at their feet; the
afternoon sun filled the little street with vivid golden light.

Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard,--of unfamiliar wheels. The
post-supporters knew the creak or rattle or jingle of every "team" in
Bixby. There was a general stir, a looking up the street, in the
direction whence the sound came; and then a gaping of mouths, an opening
of eyes, a craning of long necks.

A phaeton, drawn by a comfortable-looking gray horse, was coming slowly
down the street. It approached; it stopped at the post-office door. In
it sat two young girls: one, tall, erect, with flashing gray eyes and
brilliant color, held the reins, and drew the horse up with the air of a
practised whip; the other leaned back among the cushions, with a very
happy, contented look, though she seemed rather tired. Both girls were
dressed alike in simple gowns of blue gingham; but the simplicity was of
a kind unknown to Bixby, and the general effect was very marvellous. The
spectators had not yet shut their mouths, when a clattering of hoofs
was heard, and a boy on a black pony came dashing along the street, and
drew up beside the phaeton.

"No, it wasn't that house," he said, addressing the two girls. "At
least, there was no one there. Say," he added, turning to the nearest
lounger, a sandy person of uncertain age and appearance, "can you tell
us where Mrs. Brett lives?"

"The Widder Brett?" returned the sandy person, cautiously. "Do ye mean
the Widder Brett?"

"Yes, I suppose so," answered the