As seen from the vicarage dining-room, which took a warm tone of
light from the fire, the weather and scene outside seemed to have
stereotyped themselves in unrelieved shades of gray. The long-
armed trees and shrubs of juniper, cedar, and pine varieties, were
grayish black; those of the broad-leaved sort, together with the
herbage, were grayish-green; the eternal hills and tower behind
them were grayish-brown; the sky, dropping behind all, gray of the
purest melancholy.
Yet in spite of this sombre artistic effect, the morning was not
one which tended to lower the spirits. It was even cheering. For
it did not rain, nor was rain likely to fall for many days to
come.
Elfride had turned from the table towards the fire and was idly
elevating a hand-screen before her face, when she heard the click
of a little gate outside.
'Ah, here's the postman!' she said, as a shuffling, active man
came through an opening in the shrubbery and across the lawn. She
vanished, and met him in the porch, afterwards coming in with her
hands behind her back.
'How many are there? Three for papa, one for Mr. Smith, none for
Miss Swancourt. And, papa, look here, one of yours is from--whom
do you think?--Lord Luxellian. And it has something HARD in it--a
lump of something. I've been feeling it through the envelope, and
can't think what it is.'
'What does Luxellian write for, I wonder?' Mr. Swancourt had said
simultaneously with her words.
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