"At what hour last night," said Nansie, presently, "did you hear the nightingale?"
"It must have been near midnight," replied her father. "At the same time to-night it will sing again. Have you finished your tea?"
"Then go again to the post-office, and see if there is a letter for me. I am growing anxious at not receiving one. You need not stop to clear these things; I will put them away."
She rose and stood for a moment with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He drew her face down to his, and kissed her. With a bright nod she left him, carrying with her a written order authorizing the delivery of any letters which might be lying in the post-office for her father.
Godalming, the town for which she was bound, was within a mile, and she stepped out briskly. But when she was about midway, and no one was in sight, she made a little detour into the woods, and drew from her bosom a picture. It was the portrait of a young man, and she gazed fondly at it, and kissed it as fondly. Then she drew forth a letter, and read it and pressed it to her lips; after which she replaced the letter and the portrait, and proceeded on her errand. Her thoughts may be thus fashioned into words:
"I wrote to him yesterday, and I sent him a telegram in the evening, knowing we should be here to-day. He may be absent. I hope not; I hope he has received both. Will he write, or will he come? Will he be angry that I have accompanied my father? At all events he knows, and he is never unjust. Ah! if he were here with us, how happy I should be! I love him, I love him, I love him!"
In less than half an hour she was in the Godalming post-office, making her inquiry.
"Mr. James Loveday," said the female clerk, looking at the order handed to her by Nansie--she was familiar with it, having seen it on each of the three previous days. "Yes, there is, I think."
She sorted some letters and handed one to Nansie, who, after hesitating a little, asked:
"Or for Miss Nansie Loveday? N-a-n-s-i-e."
"That's a curious way to spell Nancy," said the clerk. "No, there are none."
"Or for Manners?" she asked, with singular timidity and bashfulness.
Nansie's face and neck were scarlet as she replied: "Mrs."
She lingered still, and said, with a kind of pathetic imploring: "Would a telegram be received here if addressed to the post-office till called for?"