CHAPTER II.

The day of happy letters.

The arrival of the morning boat with letters and newspapers from the East was the great event of the day in Burnet.  It was due at eleven o’clock; and everybody, consciously or unconsciously, was on the lookout for it.  The gentlemen were at the office bright and early, and stood chatting with each other, and fingering the keys of their little drawers till the rattle of the shutter announced that the mail was distributed.  Their wives and daughters at home, meanwhile, were equally in a state of expectation, and whatever they might be doing kept ears and eyes on the alert for the step on the gravel and the click of the latch which betokened the arrival of the family news-bringer.

Doctors cannot command their time like other people, and Dr. Carr was often detained by his patients, and made late for the mail, so it was all the pleasanter a surprise when on the great day of the cake-baking he came in earlier than usual, with his hands quite full of letters and parcels.  All the girls made a rush for him at once; but he fended them off with an elbow, while with teasing slowness he read the addresses on the envelopes.

“Miss Carr—­Miss Carr—­Miss Katherine Carr—­Miss Carr again; four for you, Katy.  Dr. P. Carr,—­a bill and a newspaper, I perceive; all that an old country doctor with a daughter about to be married ought to expect, I suppose.  Miss Clover E. Carr,—­one for the ‘Confidante in white linen.’  Here, take it, Clovy.  Miss Carr again.  Katy, you have the lion’s share.  Miss Joanna Carr,—­in the unmistakable handwriting of Miss Inches.  Miss Katherine Carr, care Dr. Carr.  That looks like a wedding present, Katy.  Miss Elsie Carr; Cecy’s hand, I should say.  Miss Carr once more,—­from the conquering hero, judging from the post-mark.  Dr. Carr,—­another newspaper, and—­hollo!—­one more for Miss Carr.  Well, children, I hope for once you are satisfied with the amount of your correspondence.  My arm fairly aches with the weight of it.  I hope the letters are not so heavy inside as out.”

“I am quite satisfied, Papa, thank you,” said Katy, looking up with a happy smile from Ned’s letter, which she had torn open first of all.  “Are you going, dear?” She laid her packages down to help him on with his coat.  Katy never forgot her father.

“Yes, I am going.  Time and rheumatism wait for no man.  You can tell me your news when I come back.”

It is not fair to peep into love letters, so I will only say of Ned’s that it was very long, very entertaining,—­Katy thought,—­and contained the pleasant information that the “Natchitoches” was to sail four days after it was posted, and would reach New York a week sooner than any one had dared to hope.  The letter contained several other things as well, which showed Katy how continually she had been in his thoughts,—­a painting on rice paper, a dried flower or two, a couple of little pen-and-ink sketches of the harbor of Santa Lucia and the shipping, and a small cravat of an odd convent lace folded very flat and smooth.  Altogether it was a delightful letter, and Katy read it, as it were, in leaps, her eyes catching at the salient points, and leaving the details to be dwelt upon when she should be alone.