r to the
recipient. This accounted for the fact that Martin, the postman, was
invariably late.

To Molly Healy, anxiously waiting at the Presbytery gate for the weekly
letter from Ireland, Martin was a constantly recurring cause of sin. So
keenly did she resent his leisurely methods that her indignation had
changed to anger, her anger almost to hatred, when she resolved to check
herself.

"It must be stopped," she remarked to Mrs. Quirk, "or one day I will be
running at him with the pitchfork, and it would never do for the
priest's sister to be pursuing the postman through the town to destroy
him."

"Sure, then, if I was you I would be praying for the man, returning good
for the evil he was doing you," said Mrs. Quirk.

"But he doesn't mean it, and that is the worst of Martin. His conscience
is so big that it takes him all his time to carry it round. He's a
poor, good man, but it is murder I sometimes contemplate," cried Molly.

At last she hit upon the device of giving Martin half an hour's grace
before expecting him.

"I will be lenient with the man, and not expect him until he has
arrived," she said. "But it would do my heart good to pinch him."

The half-hour had been prolonged to an hour, and Molly Healy was in a
white heat of fury when Martin arrived.

"And what has kept you to-day?" cried Molly Healy. "You are the slowest
man in Grey Town, for sure, and that is saying you are phenomenally
slow."

"You are angry," said Martin, in his most deliberate fashion.

"Angry! I am just quivering with ungovernable temper. I could shake
you!"

"You require your letters delivered by a twenty horse-power auto-motor,"
replied Martin.

Therewith he began to run through the letters with a deliberation that
was almost cruel.

"When you have done shuffling the cards, perhaps you will give me the
one you have in your hand," cried Molly.

"Patience, young lady. I have a duty to perform----."

"Your duty is to give me my letter. If you only knew how near you were
to sudden death you would be in haste to get away from me."

"There you are, five letters--one for you. Let me see; is it for you?"
Martin began to read the address over.

"Oh, the Lord forgive you! You are an occasion of sin to me."

"Patience, Miss Molly! Here you are, and good-day to you. The Lord send
you a better temper!"

Martin delivered the letters, and proceeded placidly on his path of
duty. Molly Healy watched him until he had turned a dist