The Postmaster of Market Deignton by E. Phillips Oppenheim

At eight o'clock precisely, following in the footsteps of my predecessors, I close the shop. For the last half-hour Market Deignton has been in an unheard of state of excitement, and David's hands have been itching for the shutters. There is a concert in the large room behind the inn--an amateur concert for the benefit of the Infirmary, of which her ladyship is the patroness. Carriages have been rolling up by the score, carriages disclosing to the open-mouthed market throng fine ladies in snowy-white opera cloaks, and men in evening clothes. The front seats are half a guinea each, and the high prices and Lady Deignton's patronage have made the affair fashionable. It is her ladyship's first appearance after nearly two years' mourning, and for the last week or two every one has been saying, "How sweet it is of dear Lady Deignton to abandon her own desire for a longer period of seclusion, and ensure success for the concert by her promise to attend." I have had the privilege of disposing of a good many tickets, and the lady who brought them to me, and who was surprised when I growled at her for offering me a commission, was good enough to suggest my retaining a two-shilling one for myself. I threw it to David, and since then the boy has scarcely been sane.

His time has come at last. The mail-bag, sealed with my own hand, has been called for a few minutes before the hour, and at the first stroke of the church clock David is out with the shutters. In the little sitting-room, to which I retire with a sigh of relief, I find my evening meal prepared for me, and I settle down to enjoy the only part of the day which reconciles me to existences.