Millard Fillmore Clark was older by five years. He was short, thin and inclined to be round-shouldered. He was supposed to be sorting also, but his fingers did not fly. They lingered over each envelope or post card they touched. Certain of the envelopes he held, after a precautionary glance at his half-sister, between his eyes and the hanging lamp, and the postal cards he invariably read. “Humph! Sho!” he muttered aloud, after one such reading. Reliance heard him and turned. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s the matter now?” Millard, who had spoken without being aware of it, looked guilty. “Why, nothin’ special,” he answered, hurriedly. “I just-- Humph! Seems that Peter Eldridge’s wife’s nephew has had another baby. That’s news, ain’t it!” Reliance sniffed. “Yes, I should say it was,” she observed, dryly, “if it was the way you put it. His wife’s niece, you mean, I suppose.” “Well, it’s his wife’s nephew’s wife. That’s the same thing, ain’t it. He’s the one that married the girl from up to Middleboro. Simpson--or Simpkins--seems to me her name was, as I recollect. She--” “Mil Clark, you put that postal in the box where it belongs. This mail is late enough already and I don’t want to stay out here in this office all night. If you would only mind your own business as well as you do everybody else’s you’d be the smartest man in this town, which--” She did not finish the sentence. Mr. Clark regarded her suspiciously. “Well, which what?” he demanded, after a momentary pause. “Which what? What was you goin’ to say?” “Nothin’ in particular. Go to work and stop talkin’.” “I know what you was goin’ to say. You’ve said it too many times afore. I’m gettin’ sick of havin’ it hove up to me, too. Just about sick of it, I am. A man can stand about so much and then he gets desperate. He don’t care what he does to himself. Some of these days you’ll be surprised, Reliance Clark--you and Esther and all the rest of ’em.” His sister did not seem greatly alarmed. “Um-hum,” she sniffed. “Well, just now you can surprise me by doin’ your share of this mail sortin’.... Oh, my soul and body!” she added, snatching the postal from his hand. “Either go to work or get out of my way, one or the other. Go out in the back room and sit down. You can _sit down_ as well as anybody I ever saw.” Millard Fillmore did not accept the suggestion. With the expression of a martyr he proceeded to cut the twine binding the bundles of papers and second class matter, muttering to himself and shaking his head as he did so. The contents of the bundles followed the letters and postals into the boxes. At last Reliance heaved a sigh of relief. “There!” she exclaimed. “That’s done. Open the window.” Mr. Clark slid back the ground-glass window. An eager crowd was standing at the other side of the partition. Millard faced his fellow-citizens with an air of importance. This was the part of the post-office routine which he liked.