The duties of the postman in Rosemary Lane were light, and there were persons in the neighbourhood who had never arrived at the dignity of receiving a letter. Certainly no child had ever received one. General astonishment was therefore created when it became known that the postman, stopping to deliver a communication at the Royal George, the celebrated gin-palace of the locality, had produced a letter, addressed to "The Duchess of Rosemary Lane," and, with an air which proclaimed that he looked upon the matter as a joke, had asked the proprietor of the gin-palace if he knew any person answering to that description. Regarding the matter in a more serious light when he was informed that there really was such a person in existence, the postman proceeded to Seth Dumbrick's stall, and delivered the letter in the presence of a dozen or so curiousmongers, who had became aware of the circumstance, and considered it sufficiently interesting to warrant an inquiry. The postman, with a stern sense of duty, did not part with the letter too easily. It was a Government affair, he said, and he might be called over the coals for it. Indeed, under any circumstances, he declared his intention of making a special memorandum with reference to it, for his own satisfaction and that of the head of his department. The idea of a duchess in Rosemary Lane was something almost too astounding for credibility. "Nevertheless it is a fact," said Seth Dumbrick, looking at the letter with much inward astonishment; not knowing what the letter might contain, he deemed it prudent to conceal any exhibition of this feeling. "She lives with me." "If you're her father, I suppose you call yourself a duke." "I'm her guardian, and I call myself a cobbler." The postman was aware that such a conversation was outside the scope of his duties, but he was fond of gossip and banter. "I'd like to see this Duchess." "Duchess!" called Seth, down the stairs. Up came the Duchess, accompanied by Sally. "What's your name?" asked the postman. "The Duchess of Rosemary Lane," replied the Duchess. "And upon my word," remarked the postman, "she looks like a little lady." He could not help admiring her; he had a little girl of his own at home. "She is one," said Sally, promptly. The postman having departed, Seth, with the letter on his leather apron, fell into a brown study. It had suddenly occurred to him that it might contain unwelcome intelligence; perhaps it came from some person who claimed the child. In that case, would it not be better for him to destroy it without reading it? Sally, aware from the expression on Seth's face--a book in which she was by this time deeply read--that he was revolving an important consideration with reference to the letter, was in a fever of excitement. So, in a less degree, were the neighbours surrounding the stall.