"If the store's closed, he can slip the
letter into the box, an' three cents with it, an' they'll put a stamp
on in the mornin'."
By this time, there was a general dusting of crumbs from Sunday gowns,
a settling of boxes and baskets, and the feminine portion of the East
Tiverton congregation, according to ancient custom, passed into the
pews nearest the stove, and arranged itself more compactly for the
midday gossip. This was a pleasant interlude in the religious decorum
of the day; no Sunday came when the men did not trail off to the store
for their special council, and the women, with a restful sense of
sympathy alloyed by no disturbing element, settled down for an
exclusively feminine view of the universe. Mrs. Page took the head of
the pew, and disposed her portly frame so as to survey the scene with
ease. She was a large woman, with red cheeks and black, shining hair.
One powerful arm lay along the back of the pew, and, as she talked, she
meditatively beat the rail in time. Her sister, Mrs. Ellison, according
to an intermittent custom, had come over from Saltash to attend church,
and incidentally to indulge in a family chat. It was said that Tilly
rode over about jes' so often to get the Tiverton news for her son
Leonard, who furnished local items to the Sudleigh "Star;" and, indeed,
she made no secret of sitting down in social conclave with a bit of
paper and a worn pencil in hand, to jog her memory.
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