ight, boys; Jem Dexter can leave it to-night, as he goes by. Any
mail for me, Joe? But you're waiting, Mother Phebe?"--turning with a
sudden gentleness to the old woman near Mary.

"Yes, I be. But it don't matter. Joseph, serve the Doctor,"--beating a
tattoo on the counter with her restless hands.

The Doctor did not turn to take his letters, however, nor seem to heed
the wind which was rising fitfully each moment without, but leaned
leisurely on the counter.

"Did you expect a letter to-day?"--in the same subdued voice.

She gave a scared look at the men by the window, and then in a
whisper,--

"From my son, Derrick,--yes. The folks here take Derrick for a
joke,--an' me. But I'm expectin'. He said he'd come, thee sees?"

"So he did."

"Well, there's none from Derrick to-day, Mother Phebe," said the burly
storekeeper, taking his stubby pipe out of his mouth.

She caught her breath.

"Thee looked carefully, Joseph?"

He nodded. She began to unbutton a patched cotton umbrella,--her lips
moving as people's do sometimes in the beginning of second childhood.

"I'll go home, then. I'll be back mail-day, Wednesday, Joseph. Four days
that is,--Wednesday."

"Lookee here now, Gran!" positively, laying down the pipe to give effect
to his words; "you're killin' yerself, you are. Keep a-trottin' here all
winter, an' what sort of a report of yerself'll yer make to Derrick by
spring? When that 'ere letter comes, if come it do, I've said I'd put on
my cut an' run up with it. See there!"--pulling out her thin calico
skirt before the Doctor,--"soaked, she is."

"Thee's kind, Joseph, but thee don't know,"--drawing her frock back with
a certain dignity. "When my boy's handwrite comes, I must be here. I
learned writin' on purpose that I might read it first,"--turning to
Mary.

"How long has your boy been gone?" asked Miss Defourchet, heedless of
Joseph's warning "Hush-h!"

"Twenty years, come Febuary," eagerly volunteered one or two voices by
the window. "She's never heerd a word in that time, an' she never misses
a mail-day, but she's expectin'," added one, with a coarse laugh.

"None o' that, Sam Venners," said Joe, sharply. "If so be as Dirk said
he'd come, be it half-a-hunder' years, he'll stan' to 't. I knowed Dirk.
Many's the clam we toed out o' th' inlet yonner. He's not the sort to
hang round, gnawin' out the old folk's meat-pot, as some I cud name.
He"----

"I'll go, if thee'll let me apast," said the old woma