ver. He sighed over his loss.

But his attention was soon diverted by a welcome sight. Sim
Baskerville, the village store-keeper and postmaster, commonly called
Basketful in accordance with the custom of the country, could already
be seen, even from this height, coming out upon the veranda at short
intervals to see if the mail were coming. Nothing annoyed the
postmaster so much as to have the mail arrive late, and nothing pleased
the mail-carrier so much as to annoy the postmaster. Mr. Basketful was
a choleric Englishman, and one of Coonie's chief diversions was to put
him into a rage by a dilatory approach to the village. So, seeing his
enemy on the lookout, he let old Bella crawl down the hill with
maddening slowness, looking round, meanwhile, for somebody with whom he
might stop and talk.

The first opportunity presented itself with the whirring of a sewing
machine, coming from a little house on the edge of the village. It was
a tiny white cottage, apparently kept from encroaching upon the road by
a thick rope of lilacs, a trim little place, painfully neat. When that
sound emanated from within, Coonie knew that the village dressmaker was
at home; and as she bore a fierce hatred to him and all his doings, he
never failed to give her a call when possible. He drew up his
buckboard before the lilac bushes, therefore, happily conscious of
certain vigorous gesticulations from the post-office veranda, of a
character calculated to encourage rapid approach.

"Hello! in there!" he shouted.

There was no response, except for a more determined whizzing of the
machine.

"Got a message for you, 'Liza!"

To the angry occupant of the house it was agony to go on sewing. Who
knew but that, for once, the old fool might be telling the truth, she
reflected. Perhaps someone in the Oa had sent word with him that she
was wanted there for a day's sewing, and she knew nothing would please
Coonie better than to have her refuse to listen.

But by this time her tormentor, despairing of ever enticing her out by
fair words, resolved to launch a bomb which he knew was sure to bring
the besieged raging to the walls. "Got a message from Tom Poole!" he
roared, loud enough to be heard at Mrs. Fraser's across the valley.
"He says to tell you he's comin' down sparkin' to-morrow night!"

Miss Cotton flashed into the doorway, white with rage. She, who had
never seen the man who dared to pay her loverlike attentions, to have
her name b