He took the letter from his breast pocket and stood looking at it.

The postmaster, after the first word of greeting, went on with his work, whistling softly as he handled the stiffly folded, wax-splashed missives of the time.

The wind was in the west, and the fitful air came in from the withered garden and breathed upon Rand's forehead.

He stood for perhaps five minutes looking at the letter, then with a curious and characteristic gesture of decision he walked to the high counter and with his own hand dropped it into the mail-bag, then waited to see it covered by the drift from the postmaster's fingers.

"Don't the world move, sir ?" said the latter worthy.