Luckie Jean looked up at her consideringly. "You keeps your eyes in your head, bairn. Maybe I'll trust you wi' it, but a postwoman must be gey particular, ye ken." "I know," Joey agreed, in all good faith, though it was hard to attend to ordinary remarks like that when one was just trembling with eagerness to know what letters were for the house of Graham. "You'll mebbe like to take a bit of a look at they scrawly anes as I've pit in the pile ower yonder?" inquired Luckie Jean, unbending still more. "There're what they ca's 're-directed,' but there's not mony writes plain for all their fine schuling, bairn. They anes 'ull likely need to wait till my niece comes from Pettalva, as have the gey expensive spectacles.... Na, laddie, ye'll not be distairbing the postmistress at her duties. Bacon--you canna be needing more--you had the half-pound Monday." The customer, a small bare-footed boy, clasping a coin tightly in his hand, looked apprehensively at the postmistress. "But ma mither...." "Be off, and tell your mither you've ate your half-pound far too quick," thundered the autocrat; but Gavin came to the rescue, stifling a laugh. "I say, mother, can't _I_ weigh it out for the youngster? You showed me how, ages ago." "Ou ay, ye'll still be meddling," growled Luckie Jean over her post-bag, but she did not say no, and Gavin served her customer, and put the money into the till in a very professional manner. Joey in the meanwhile got to the pile of redirected letters, and soon succeeded in sorting them, the writing in most cases hardly justifying the severe criticism of the Crumach postmistress. Then, at last, she ventured the question she had been burning to put all the time: "Have you come on any for us yet?" Luckie Jean, busied in making a final scoop all round the bag with her long, thin arm, jerked her head in the direction of a little pile at the end of the counter. "There you be--twa or three letters, and a newspaper for your maw. That's aal." Five Grahams hurled themselves simultaneously on the little pile, while Luckie Jean tied the rest up in lots according to their destination. Gavin was there first; he looked and flung them down, one after another in deep disappointment. "The blue one--that'll be from Cousin Greta--see the crest! The white one with the small, screwgy writing--that's from Uncle Stafford. _That's_ a bill, and this is a newspaper; nothing from Redlands, Joey!" Joey bit back a little gulp of disappointment. "I didn't really think there would be," she said. "Can we leave any more letters for you on our way, Luckie Jean?"