the beautiful morning sunshine, which poured in in a wide stream
right across the kitchen, lighting up with golden radiance the
flowers in the window, the old-fashioned photographs on the wall, the
china on the dressers, and the cat lying asleep on the scarlet
cushion in the arm-chair by the fire.

When he saw Thomas coming the postman ceased fumbling with the latch
and waited, holding two letters in his hand.

"Lovely weather, Mr. Dawson. You ain't to work this morning!" he
remarked in a tone of surprise.

Thomas shook his head slowly. "No, my wife is bad, she've been bad
all night with a sick headache. She's better this morning, but I
stayed home to get her some breakfast, and tidy up a bit.
When anybody's sick they don't feel they want to do much."

"You'm right," agreed the postman feelingly. "I gets sick headaches
very bad myself, and when I wakes with one it seems to me I don't
care whether folk gets their letters or not. I am glad I didn't feel
like that this morning, Mr. Dawson, for it's good to be alive on such
a day, and I've got two letters for you."

"Both of 'em for me!" said Thomas in surprise, and holding out his
hand to take them. "I don't think I've had two to once in my life
before."

The postman laughed. "If folks didn't get more than you do we
postmen would soon be out of a job, I reckon!" But Thomas was gazing
at his letters with such a perplexed, preoccupied air, that he did