variations of the day's monotony.

"If you were the sort of woman that cared to make your fortune,"
said one William Clodd, an old friend of Mrs. Postwhistle's, young
Grindley having descended into the cellar to grind coffee, "I'd
tell you what to do. Take a bun-shop somewhere in the
neighbourhood of a girls' school, and put that assistant of yours
in the window. You'd do a roaring business."

"There's a mystery about 'im," said Mrs. Postwhistle.

"Know what it is?"

"If I knew what it was, I shouldn't be calling it a mystery,"
replied Mrs. Postwhistle, who was a stylist in her way.

"How did you get him? Win him in a raffle?"

"Jones, the agent, sent 'im to me all in a 'urry. An assistant is
what I really wanted, not an apprentice; but the premium was good,
and the references everything one could desire."

"Grindley, Grindley," murmured Clodd. "Any relation to the Sauce,
I wonder?"

"A bit more wholesome, I should say, from the look of him," thought
Mrs. Postwhistle.

The question of a post office to meet its growing need had long
been under discussion by the neighbourhood. Mrs. Postwhistle was