Now and then a registered letter would arrive, and this always created considerable sensation in the room, and if the legal recipient did not happen to be present, Miss Harriet never breathed a quiet breath until he or she had been sent for, had taken the letter, and given her a receipt.

Sometimes she sat up as late as eleven o'clock at night on mail days, hoping that some one who had been sent for would arrive to relieve her of a registered letter.
All the mail matter had been distributed, everybody but Mr Madison Chalkley had left the room; and when the old gentleman, as was his wont on the first day of the month, had gone up to the desk, untied the bundle of uncalled-for letters, the outer ones permanently rounded by the tightness of the cord, and after carefully looking over them, one by one, had made his usual remark about the folly of people who wouldn't stay in a place until their letters could get to them, had tied up the bundle and taken his departure; then Miss Harriet put the empty mail bag under the desk, and went up-stairs where an old lady sat by the window, sewing in the fading light.
"No letters for you to-day, Mrs Keswick," said she.
"Of course not," was the answer, "I didn't expect any." "Don't you think," said Miss Harriet, taking a seat opposite the old lady, "that it is about time for you to go home and attend to your affairs ?" "Well, upon my word!" said Mrs Keswick, letting her hands and her work fall in her lap, "that's truly hospitable.

I didn't expect it of you, Harriet Corvey." "I wouldn't have said it," returned the postmistress, "if I hadn't felt dead certain that you knew you were always welcome here.

But Tony Miles told me, just before the mail came in, that the lady who's at your place is running it herself, and that she's going to use pickle brine for a fertilizer." "Very likely," said Mrs Keswick, her face totally unmoved by this intelligence--"very likely.

That's the way they used to do in ancient times, or something of the same kind.