The tailor over the way heard it, and lifted his head with a smile;
Rosalie Evanturel, behind the postal wicket, heard it, and her face swam
with colour. Rosalie busied herself with the letters and papers for a
moment before she answered Mrs. Flynn's greeting, for there were ringing
in her ears the words she herself had said a few days before: "It is good
to live, isn't it?"

To-day it was so good to live that life seemed an endless being and
a tireless happy doing--a gift of labour, an inspiring daytime, and
a rejoicing sleep. Exaltation, a painful joy, and a wide embarrassing
wonderment possessed her. She met Mrs. Flynn's face at the wicket with
shining eyes and a timid smile.

"Ah, there y'are, darlin'!" said Mrs. Flynn. "And how's the dear father
to-day?"

"He seems about the same, thank you."

"Ah, that's foine. Shure, if we could always be 'about the same,' we'd
do. True for you, darlin', 'tis as you say. If ould Mary Flynn could
be always "bout the same,' the clods o' the valley would never cover her
bones. But there 'tis--we're here to-day, and away tomorrow. Shure,
though, I am not complainin'. Not I--not Mary Flynn. Teddy Flynn used
to say to me, says he: 'Niver born to know distress! Happy as worms in a
garden av cucumbers. Seventeen years in this country, Mary,' says he,
'an' nivir in the pinitintiary yet.' There y'are. Ah, the birds do be
singin' to-day! 'Tis good! 'Tis good, darlin'! You'll not mind Mary
Flynn callin' you darlin', though y'are postmistress, an' 'll be more
than that--more than that wan day--or Mary Flynn's a fool. Aye, more