Oliver lighted a candle kept on a stand at the back for such purposes, brought it to the table, and sealed the letter with a large, imposing red seal. As he passed the ring and letter back to his father, he spoke. "If you are particularly anxious that the letter should reach Mr. Paul safely, father, and of course you are so, as it contains money, why did you not send it by hand? I would have taken it to him." "There's nothing safer than the post," returned Mr. Preen, "and I want him to have it to-morrow morning." Oliver laughed. "I could have taken it this evening, father. I can do so still, if you like." "No, it shall go by post. You want to be off to MacEveril, I suppose." "No, I do not," replied Oliver. "Had I been able to finish here this morning I might have gone over this afternoon; it is too late now." "You had nothing to do all day yesterday," growled his father. "Oh, yes, I know. I am not grumbling." Mr. Preen put the letter into his pocket, gathered up the pile of other letters, handed half of them to his son, for it was a pretty good heap, and they started for the post, about three minutes' walk. The small shop containing the post-office at Duck Brook was kept by Mrs. Sym, who sold sweetstuff, also tapes and cottons. Young Sym, her son, a growing youth, delivered the letters, which were brought in by a mail-cart. She was a clean, tidy woman of middle age, never seen out of a muslin cap with a wide border and a black bow, a handkerchief crossed over her shoulders, and a checked apron. Oliver, of lighter step than his father, reached the post-office first and tumbled his portion of the letters into the box placed in the window to receive them. The next moment Mr. Preen put his in also, together with the letter addressed to Mr. Paul. "We are too late," observed Oliver. "I thought we should be." "Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Preen, in surprise, as he turned round. "Too late! Why how can the afternoon have gone on?" he continued, his eyes falling on the clock of the little grey church which stood beyond the triangle of houses, the hands of which were pointing to a quarter past five. "If you knew it was so late why did you not say so?" he asked sharply of his son. "I was not sure until I saw the clock; I only thought it must be late by the time we had been at work," replied Oliver. "I might have sent you over with that letter as you suggested, had I known it would not go to-night. I wonder whether Dame Sym would give it back to me." He dived down the two steps into the shop as he spoke, Oliver following. Dame Sym--so Duck Brook called her--stood knitting behind the little counter, an employment she took up at spare moments. "Mrs. Sym, I've just put some letters into the box, not perceiving that it was past five o'clock," began Mr. Preen, civilly. "I suppose they'll not go to-night?" "Can't, sir," replied the humble post-mistress. "The bag's made up."