d nothing
to do with Laurel Run and only bothered her and "made her head ache,"
and she had usually referred them to her admiring neighbor at Hickory
Hill for explanation, who had generally returned them to her with the
brief indorsement, "Purp stuff, don't bother," or, "Hog wash, let it
slide." She remembered now that he had not returned the last two. With
knitted brows and a slight pout she put aside her private correspondence
and tore open the first one. It referred with official curtness to an
unanswered communication of the previous week, and was "compelled to
remind her of rule 47." Again those horrid rules! She opened the other;
the frown deepened on her brow, and became fixed.

It was a summary of certain valuable money letters that had miscarried
on the route, and of which they had given her previous information.
For a moment her cheeks blazed. How dare they; what did they mean! Her
waybills and register were always right; she knew the names of every
man, woman, and child in her district; no such names as those borne by
the missing letters had ever existed at Laurel Run; no such addresses
had ever been sent from Laurel Run post-office. It was a mean
insinuation! She would send in her resignation at once! She would get
"the boys" to write an insulting letter to Senator Slocumb,--Mrs.
Baker had the feminine idea of Government as a purely personal
institution,--and she would find out who it was that had put them up to
this prying, crawling impudence! It was probably that wall-eyed old
wife of the postmaster at Heavy Tree Crossing, who was jealous of her.
"Remind her of their previous unanswered communication," indeed! Where
was that communication, anyway? She remembered she had sent it to her
admirer at Hickory Hill. Odd that he hadn't answered it. Of course, he
knew about this meanness--could he, too, have dared to suspect her! The
thought turned her crimson again. He, Stanton Green, was an old "Laurel
Runner," a friend of John's, a little "triflin'" and "presoomin'," but
still an old loyal pioneer of the camp! "Why hadn't he spoke up?"

There was the soft, muffled fall of a horse's hoof in the thick dust of
the highway, the jingle of dismounting spurs, and a firm tread on the
platform. No doubt one of the boys returning for a few supplemental
remarks under the feeble pretense of forgotten stamps. It had been done
before, and she had resented it as "cayotin' round;" but now she was
eager to pour out her wrongs t