for "Little Lost Post Office" was unevenly
painted on the high cross-bar of the gate that stood wide open and
permanently warped with long sagging. There was a hitch-rail outside the
gate, and Bud took the hint and left his horses there. From the wisps
of fresh hay strewn along the road, Bud knew that haying had begun at
Little Lost. There were at least four cabins and a somewhat pretentious,
story-and-a-half log house with vines reaching vainly to the high window
sills, and coarse lace curtains. One of these curtains moved slightly,
and Bud's sharp eyes detected the movement and knew that his arrival was
observed in spite of the emptiness of the yard.

The beaten path led to a screen door which sagged with much slamming,
leaving a wide space at the top through which flies passed in and out
quite comfortably. Bud saw that, also, and his fingers itched to reset
that door, just as he would have done for his mother--supposing his
mother would have tolerated the slamming which had brought the need. Bud
lifted his gloved knuckles to knock, saw that the room within was
grimy and bare and meant for public use, very much like the office of a
country hotel, with a counter and a set of pigeon-holes at the farther
end. He walked in.

No one appeared, and after ten minutes or so Bud guessed why, and went
back to the door, pushed it wide open and permitted it to fly shut with
a bang. Whereupon a girl opened the door behind the counter and came in,
glancing at Bud with frank curiosity.

Bud took off his hat and clanked over to the counter and asked if there
was any mail for Bud Birnie--Robert Wallace Birnie.

The girl looked at him again and smiled, and turned to shuffle a handful
of letters. Bud employed the time in trying to guess just what she meant
by that smile.

It was not really a smile, he decided, but the beginning of one. And if
that were the beginning, he would very much like to know what the whole
smile would mean. The beginning hinted at things. It was as if she
doubted the reality of the name he gave, and meant to conceal her doubt,
or had heard something amusing about him, or wished to be friends with
him, or was secretly timorous and trying to appear merely indifferent.
Or perhaps----

She replaced the letters and turned, and rested her hands on the
counter. She looked at him and again her lips turned at the corners in
that faint, enigmatical beginning of a smile.

"There isn't a thing," she said. "The mail co