scrap which was folded
round the full-written sheet of paper, "Make it as smooth at Framley
Court as possible." However strong, and reasonable, and unanswerable
the body of Mark's letter may have been, all his hesitation,
weakness, doubt, and fear, were expressed in this short postscript.

CHAPTER V

Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio

And now, with my reader's consent, I will follow the postman with
that letter to Framley; not by its own circuitous route indeed, or by
the same mode of conveyance; for that letter went into Barchester by
the Courcy night mail-cart, which, on its road, passes through the
villages of Uffley and Chaldicotes, reaching Barchester in time for
the up mail-train to London. By that train, the letter was sent
towards the metropolis as far as the junction of the Barset branch
line, but there it was turned in its course, and came down again by
the main line as far as Silverbridge; at which place, between six
and seven in the morning, it was shouldered by the Framley footpost
messenger, and in due course delivered at the Framley Parsonage
exactly as Mrs. Robarts had finished reading prayers to the four
servants. Or, I should say rather, that such would in its usual
course have been that letter's destiny. As it was, however, it
reached Silverbridge on Sunday, and lay there till the Monday, as
the Framley people have declined their Sunday post. And then again,
when the letter was delivered at the parsonage, on that wet Monday
morning, Mrs. Robarts was not at home. As we are all aware, she was
staying with her ladyship at Framley Court.

"Oh, but it's mortial wet," said the shivering postman as he handed
in that and the vicar's newspaper. The vicar was a man of the world,
and took the _Jupiter_.

"Come in, Robin postman, and warm theeself awhile," said Jemima the
cook, pushing a stool a little to one side, but still well in front
of the big kitchen fire.

"Well, I dudna jist know how it'll be. The wery 'edges 'as eyes
and tells on me in Silverbridge, if I so much as stops to pick a
blackberry."

"There bain't no hedges here, mon, nor yet no blackberries; so sit
thee down and warm theeself. That's better nor blackberries, I'm
thinking," and she handed him a bowl of tea with a slice of buttered
toast. Robin postman took the proffered tea, put his dripping hat on
the ground, and thanked Jemima cook. "But I dudna jist know how it'll
be," said he; "only it do pour so tarnation heavy." Which a