But when Effie came to herself in the little shop with its close atmosphere, the smell of the paraffin, the dazzling glare of the light, under the astonished gaze of Mrs. Moffatt the postmistress, who stood at her counter stamping the letters spread out before her, and who stopped short, bewildered by the sudden entrance of so much passion, of something entirely out of the ordinary, which she felt, but could not understand--the girl could bring forth nothing from that slender, convulsed throat but a gasp. It was Mr. Moubray who spoke. “My niece wishes you to give her back a letter--a letter in which something must be altered, something added: a letter with the Gilston stamp.” “Eh, Mr. Moubray! but I canna do that,” the postmistress cried. “Why can’t you do it? I am here to keep you free of blame. There is no harm in it. Give her back her letter, and she will add what she wishes to add.” “Is it Miss Effie’s own letter? I’m no sure it’s just right even in that point of view. Folk should ken their own minds,” said Mrs. Moffatt, shuffling the letters about with her hands, “before they put pen to paper. If I did it for ane, I would have to do it for areplace with’ that ask. And where would I be then? I would just never be done----” “Let us hope there are but few that are so important: and my niece is not just any one,” said the minister, with a little natural self-assertion. “I will clear you of the blame if there is any blame.” “I am not saying but what Miss Effie---- Still the post-office is just like the grave, Mr. Moubray, what’s put in canna be taken out. Na, I do not think I can do it, if it was for the Queen herselreplace with’.” Effie had not stood still while this conversation was going on; she had taken the matter into her own hands, and was turning over the letters with her trembling fingers without waiting for any permission. “Na, Miss Effie; na, Miss Effie,” said the postmistress, trying to withdraw them from her. But Effie paid no attention. Her extreme and passionate agitation was such that even official zeal, though strengthened by ignorance, could not stand before it. Notwithstanding all Mrs. Moffatt’s efforts, the girl examined everything with a swift desperation and keenness which contrasted strangely with her incapacity to see or know anything besides. It was not till she had turned over every one that she flung up her hands with a cry of dismay, and fell back upon the shoulder of the minister, who had held her all the time with his arm. “Oh, Uncle John! oh, Uncle John!” she cried with a voice of despair. “Perhaps it has not been sent, Effie. It was only a threat perhaps. It might be said to see how you felt. Rest a little, and then we will think what to do----” “I will have to go,” she said, struggling from him, getting out to the door of the shop. “Oh, I cannot breathe! Uncle John, when does the train go?” “My dear child!”