eorge, "if they go on at the rate
they've been growing of late."

"That's a true word, anyhow; but as men's legs don't go on growing at
the same rate for ever, it's not much hope I have of mine. No, George,
it's kind of you to encourage me, but the Maylands have ever been a
short-legged and long-bodied race. So it's said. However, it's some
comfort to know that short men are often long-headed, and that many of
them get on in the world pretty well."

"Of course they do," returned Aspel, "and though they can't grow long,
they never stop short in the race of life. Why, look at Nelson--he was
short; and Wellington wasn't long, and Bonny himself was small in every
way except in his intellect--who's that coming up the hill?"

"It's Mike Kenny, the postman, I think. I wonder if he has brought a
letter from sister May. Mother expects one, I know."

The man who had attracted their attention was ascending towards them
with the slow, steady gait of a practised mountaineer. He was the
post-runner of the district. Being a thinly-peopled and remote region,
the "runner's walk" was a pretty extensive one, embracing many a mile of
moorland, vale and mountain. He had completed most of his walk at that
time, having only one mountain shoulder now between him and the little
village of Howlin Cove, where his labours were to terminate for that
day.

"Good-evening, Mike," said George Aspel, as the man approached. "Any
letters for me to-night?"

"No, sur, not wan," answered Mike, with something of a twinkle in his
eye; "but I've left wan at Rocky Cottage," he added, turning to Philip
Maylands.

"Was it May's handwriting?" asked the boy eagerly.

"Sure I don't know for sartin whose hand it is i' the inside, but it's
not Miss May's on the cover. Niver a wan in these parts could write
like her--copperplate, no less."

"Come, George, let's go back," said Phil, quickly, "we've been looking
out for a letter for some days past."

"It's not exactly a letter, Master Phil," said the post-runner slowly.

"Ah, then, she'd never put us off with a newspaper," said Phil.

"No, it's a telegram," returned Mike.

Phil Maylands looked thoughtfully at the ground. "A telegram," he said,
"that's strange. Are ye sure, Mike?"

"Troth am I."

Without another word the boy started off at a quick walk, followed by
his friend and the post-runner. The latter had to diverge at that place
to leave a letter at the house of a man named Patrick G