“Well?” queried Reliance, briskly. Her tone in addressing Ostable County’s first citizen was precisely that which she used when addressing others less consequential. Of the two, it was Foster Townsend who seemed embarrassed, and embarrassment was not usual with him. “Is--is that niece of yours in the house?” he asked. For just an instant Reliance hesitated. She was regarding him intently. “I suppose likely she is,” she said. “Why?” “Hasn’t gone to bed, has she?” “She usually sits up till I come in.” “Um.... How much longer will you be out here in the office?” “I expect to lock up at nine, same as I usually do.” “I see. Going into the house then, aren’t you?” “I certainly am. I don’t expect to go out walkin’ in a pourin’ down rainstorm like this one.” Townsend’s embarrassment seemed to increase. He pulled at his beard. “Well,” he said, “I--I want to have a talk with the girl and--er----” Again he paused. Reliance, her gaze fixed upon his face, broke in. “What’s that?” she asked, sharply. “Do you mean to say you want to talk with _her_--with Esther?” “Yes, I do. I’ve got something to say to her, something rather important. I want you to be there when I say it. I’ll wait and go into the house with you when you’re ready. That is, if it’s all right.” Another momentary pause. Then Miss Clark nodded. “No reason why it shouldn’t be all right,” she said. “You better come into the shop and wait.... Be still, Millard! Here, you let Cap’n Townsend through into the shop and light the lamp there. Yes, and when you’ve done it you come straight back and help me sweep up. Bring the broom with you. Hurry now!” Mr. Clark, whose eager ears had been strained to catch this conversation, hastened to unlock the door between the post-office waiting-room and the official quarters. He ushered the visitor into the large apartment at the rear of the building--or would have done so if the said visitor had not pushed him aside and gone in first. About this room were stands displaying finished hats and bonnets. Others, but partially finished, lay about upon tables and chairs. In the room also were two sewing-machines, workbaskets, scraps of ribbons and cloth, spools of thread, and the general disorder of the workroom of a millinery shop. Reliance Clark was the town milliner as well as its postmistress. “I and Esther and Mil have to live on somethin’,” Reliance had more than once told Abbie Makepeace, the middle-aged spinster who was her partner in the millinery business, “and what Uncle Sam pays me for sortin’ letters is nothin’, or next door to it.” Millard Fillmore, agog with excitement, pulled forward a chair, carefully wiping its seat with a soiled handkerchief, and Foster Townsend sat down. Mr. Clark cleared his throat and offered apologies.