He shook his head sternly. “If I had time for drinking I’d have time to tell you all the news.” He turned on his heel, presenting the post-bag at them like a symbol of duty. “Anything fresh?” murmured Martha. Bundock veered round viciously. “D’you suppose all Bradmarsh is as sleepy as the Froggeries? Fresh? Why, there’s things as fresh as the thatch on Farmer Gale’s barn or the paint on Elijah Skindle’s new dog-hospital or the black band on the chimney-sweep’s Sunday hat.” “Is Mrs. Whitefoot dead?” inquired Martha anxiously. “No, ’twas only his mother-in-law in London, and when he went up to the funeral he had his pocket picked. Quite spoilt his day, I reckon—ha, ha, ha!” “Buryin’ ain’t a laughin’ matter,” rebuked Caleb stolidly. “It depends who’s buried,” said Bundock. “I shouldn’t cry over Mrs. Mawhood. Which reminds me that the Deacon sent out the Bellman to say he couldn’t be responsible for her debts.” “Good!” cried Caleb. Martha paled, but was silent. “Only the Bellman spoilt it as usual with his silly old jokes. Proclaimed that the Deacon had put his foot down on his wife’s bonnet.” “He, he, he!” laughed the old couple. Bundock turned a hopeless hump. “_Good_ morning!” “And thank you kindly for the letter,” called Martha. “Don’t mention it,” said Bundock. “And besides I killed—ho, ho, ho!—two frogs!” They heard his explosions on the quiet air long after he and his royal hump had vanished along the Bradmarsh road. VI Caleb’s eyes followed the heaving mail-bag. “Bundock’s buoy-oy fares to be jolly this mornin’.” “He does be lively sometimes,” agreed Martha. Suddenly Caleb became aware of the letter in his hand. “Dash my buttons, Martha! We disremembered to ask him to read it.” It can no longer be concealed that despite her erudition Martha could not read writing nor write save by imitating print. The cursive alphabet was Phœnician to her. “I didn’t forget,” she answered with her masterly calm. “Bundock’s too leaky. You heard him tell all the gossip and scandal. And it ain’t true about Jinny, for Master Peartree saw them riding in the other Sunday and Farmer Gale’s little boy sat between them. Besides, Bundock’s a man, and I don’t want a man to read my letter from Caroline.” The point seemed arguable, but Caleb meekly suggested the little boy she had just mentioned—only a mile and a half away. He would be at school, Martha pointed out. Caleb looked at the letter as a knifeless cook at an oyster. “What’s the clock-time?” he asked. “Not quite certain. I set the clock by Jinny last Friday, but it stopped suddenly yesterday, when I was reading you St. Paul’s Epistle to the Corinthians. Haven’t you heard it not striking?” Caleb shook his head. “Afeared Oi’m gooin’ deafish, dear heart. But we’ll know the clock-time on Friday,” he added philosophically. “And when Jinny comes she can read the letter likewise.” But Martha was blushing. “No, no, not Jinny! She’s a young girl.”