“Some priests may have plundered their parishes for pride’s sake; there’s no saying what is in poor human nature,” repeated Father Daley earnestly.  “God forgive us all for unprofitable servants of Him and His church.  I believe in saying more about prayer and right living, and less about collections, in God’s house, but it’s the giving hand that’s the rich hand all the world over.”

“I don’t think Ireland has ever sent us over many misers; Saint Patrick must have banished them all with the snakes,” suggested the agent with a grim smile.  The priest shook his head and laughed a little and then both men were silent again in the counting-room.

The mail train whistled noisily up the road and came into the station at the end of the empty street, then it rang its loud bell and puffed and whistled away again.

“I’ll bring your mail over, sir,” said the agent, presently.  “Sit here and rest yourself until I come back and we’ll walk home together.”

The leather mail-bag looked thin and flat and the leisurely postmaster had nearly distributed its contents by the time the agent had crossed the street and reached the office.  His clerks were both off on a long holiday; they were brothers and were glad of the chance to take their vacations together.  They had been on lower pay; there was little to do in the counting-room—­hardly anybody’s time to keep or even a letter to write.

Two or three loiterers stopped the agent to ask him the usual question if there were any signs of starting up; an old farmer who sat in his long wagon before the post-office asked for news too, and touched his hat with an awkward sort of military salute.

“Come out to our place and stop a few days,” he said kindly.  “You look kind of pinched up and bleached out, Mr. Agent; you can’t be needed much here.”

“I wish I could come,” said the agent, stopping again and looking up at the old man with a boyish, expectant face.  Nobody had happened to think about him in just that way, and he was far from thinking about himself.  “I’ve got to keep an eye on the people that are left here; you see they’ve had a pretty hard summer.”

“Not so hard as you have!” said the old man, as the agent went along the street.  “You’ve never had a day of rest more than once or twice since you were born!”

There were two letters and a pamphlet for Father Daley and a thin handful of circulars for the company.  In busy times there was often all the mail matter that a clerk could bring.  The agent sat down at his desk in the counting-room and the priest opened a thick foreign letter with evident pleasure. “’Tis from an old friend of mine; he’s in a monastery in France,” he said.  “I only hear from him once a year,” and Father Daley settled himself in his armchair to read the close-written pages.  As for the agent of the mills, he had quickly opened a letter from the treasurer and was not listening to anything that was said.