“For his wrath endureth but the twinkling of an eye, and in his pleasure is life; heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” CHAPTER XLVI. -- A LETTER FOR MR. GALLOWAY. Morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon was drawing towards its close. Roland Yorke had contrived to struggle through it, and be still living, in spite of the amount of work which was pressed upon him. Mr. Galloway had put on his spectacles and copied out several pages himself--a thing he rarely attempted. But he had gone out now, and had carried with him some letters to post. “Yes!” grumbled Roland. “He can stretch _his_ legs, but he takes good care I shall not stretch mine! Why couldn’t he send me with those letters? It’s my place to post them: it’s not his. Write, write, write! till my fingers are cramped, and my feet have no more feeling in them than the stool has! Why, I wouldn’t stop by myself in this horrid, musty, parchmented old place--Oh, it’s you, is it?” This was addressed to the postman, who came in with the afternoon delivery of letters. Two. He handed them to Roland, and departed. Of course Roland immediately began to scrutinize them: turning them over; critically guessing at the senders; playing with them at pitch and toss--anything to while away the time, and afford him some cessation from his own work. By these means he contrived to pass five minutes rather agreeably (estimating things by comparison), when Mr. Galloway’s servant entered. “Is my master in, Mr. Roland?” “Of course he’s not,” said Roland. “He’s gone gallivanting somewhere. He has all the pleasure of it, and I have all the work.” “Will you please to give him this letter, then?” said the man. “The post has just left it at our house, so I brought it round.” “What’s it brought round here for?” asked Roland. “Because he ordered it to be done. He said he expected a letter would be delivered at the house by the afternoon post, and if it came I was to bring it to him at once. Good afternoon, sir.” This little bit of information was quite enough for Roland. He seized the letter, as he had done the others, and subjected it to the same scrutiny. The address was written in a singular hand; in large, print-looking letters. Roland satisfied his curiosity, so far as the outside of the letter could do it, and then rose from his stool and laid the three letters upon Mr. Galloway’s desk in his private room. A short time, and that gentleman entered. “Anything by the post?” was his first question. “Two letters, sir,” replied Roland. “And John brought round one, which was addressed to the house. He said you expected it.” Mr. Galloway went into his private room. He glanced casually at the addresses on the letters, and then called Roland Yorke. “Where is the letter John brought round?” he inquired, somewhat testily. Roland pointed it out. “That was it, sir.”