“So he may have been at one time, but he isn’t now. He’s down in Devonshire, and it’ll take her all day, to get there, and a cold, miserable journey it’ll be for the poor soul. But I’ll tell you more about that later. The thing now is what we are going to do about the letters and Sir Timothy’s private postbag. Zillali shan’t go. I wouldn’t demean myself to ask her, after the disgraceful way she’s been banging about upstairs, not to mention her bad feet and her rheumatism. And Minnie’s got a bad cold. She couldn’t take out the telegrams yesterday, as you know, and nobody can be spared from the forge with this frost, and horses pouring in to be rough-shod; and every moment it’s getting later, and you know what old Farmer Stebbing is: if his letters are ten-minutes late, he writes off to the Postmaster-General, though, to be sure, he might make some small allowance this morning for snow and late mails. What a fool I must have been to take on this office. It’s nothing but worry, worry, worry—”

“And I suppose I couldn’t be spared to go?” asked Laura tentatively. Miss Lane was inclined to reconsider things if she appeared too eager. But now, to her great delight, that lady said, quite gratefully, “Oh, would you? And you don’t think your mother would mind? Well, that’s a weight off my mind! But you’re not going without some breakfast inside you, time or no time, or for all the farmers and squires in creation.” Then, opening the door: “Zillali Zillah! Laura’s breakfast at once! And bring plenty. She’s going out on an errand for me. Bacon and two eggs, and make haste, please.” And Laura ate her breakfast and dressed herself in her warmest clothes, with the addition of a sealskin cap and tippet Miss Lane insisted upon lending her, and hurried out into the snowy world, a hind let loose, if ever there was one.

As soon as she had left the village behind, she ran, kicking up the snow and sliding along the puddles, and managed to reach Farmer Stebbing’s house only a little later than the time appointed for the delivery of his letters in the ordinary way by the post-office authorities. Then across the park to Sir Timothy’s mansion and on to his head gardener’s house and the home farm and half a dozen cottages, and her letters were disposed of.