But she was destined to win it for all that. The operation on the old woman’s eyes passed off most successfully, and every morning and every evening as Bob Frewin strode up and down the village street, with his post-bag swinging in front of him, and his sorted bundle of letters in his left hand, Letty managed to be somewhere about in the garden or the porch just to hear the last news of the invalid. When Saturday evening came, the weather, that had been wet all the week, cleared up for a fine Sunday; it was the very last Sunday that was left to win the wager in, but it was not on that account that Letty’s heart beat as she saw Frewin stop at the wicket, and not seeing her in the front garden, fumble a minute at the latch, and come half reluctantly up to the porch. She was glad that she was in the orchard beside the house, taking down the linen that she had hung out in the morning to dry—for the big apple-tree, that was pink with budding bloom, sheltered her, and from behind the sheet that she was just going to unfasten from the line she could watch him unseen. But she wondered whether her mother would say where she was, and she just edged a little further beyond her ambuscade as she saw him turn away from the door. Her heart beat, but—yes, mother had told, or else he had seen her, for he came towards her through the side wicket. Then she came forward, and her smile was so tremulous, and her cheeks so blushing, that he seemed to forget all his stand-offishness and any cause of offence that he might have, and to take heart of grace from her bashfulness. “Ye are busy,” said he, “but I won’t keep ye long. Mother’s getting on first-rate, and the Sister has writ me a line for her. There’s a message for you in it.” The grey eyes went up to his. “I do call that kind,” said she. “What is it?” It was the young man who blushed now. “It’s a foolish message,” said he with a little laugh. “But mothers are that way. Anyway it don’t seem fair not to give it ye.” “Oh, never mind,” faltered the girl, for there was a misgiving at her heart. But he had taken the letter out of his pocket. “Tell Letty Cox,” he said, “as I thank her for her kindness to my lad in his trouble.” “Kindness!” repeated she tremulously, and with downcast face. “Well, when a feller’s a bit down, miss, ye wouldn’t think how it sort o’ cheers ’im up to ’ave somebody ’pear to care. It’s not many thinks of an old woman, but mother’s all the world to me.” “O’ course she is,” murmured Letty. “Leastways,” added the postman, rather darkly, “I didn’t think as I should ever think of another female but ’er again.” “No,” said Letty softly. “But there’s never no tellin’ what folks’ll do—man nor woman,” added Frewin wisely. “No,” said Letty again. And then there was a pause, during which she unfixed another white sheet from against the gentle blue of the evening sky.