nd himself close to the Valley-bridge, in spite of
deep snows and stinging sleet.

"You are early," said the post master, who was busy sorting his letters by
lamplight. Blasi answered that he had to be at work by sunrise, and
having delivered the bag and received the pay for it, he started for home
again. He had scarcely gone twenty steps when the post-master called after
him,

"Hulloa! Blasi, you can do a neighborly kindness if you will, and it won't
cost you anything;" and he handed Blasi a letter.

"It is for the old Miller's widow, over there. Jost fetches her letters
himself, usually; it is marked "To be called for," but he'll be glad to be
spared the walk such a day as this. You can tell him he needn't come
to-day, you know."

Blasi took the letter. The Miller's widow was an old deaf woman, who lived
quite alone, in a little, tumble-down cottage, just off the road, on a
lonely hillside. The foot-path that Blasi took, led near her dwelling. The
woman was an aunt of Jost's, and had known better days when her husband
was alive; but now she had fallen into poverty, and had grown sour and
bitter, and would have nothing to do with the rest of the world. Blasi
worked his way to her hut, through the deep, pathless snow. As he
approached the door, he took the letter from his pocket, and looked at the
address.

"Heavens and earth and all the rest of it! It is from Dietrich!" he cried
out. "I didn't copy all his work at school for nothing. I know his
hand-writing as well as I know anything!"

He talked aloud in his excitement, as he stood hammering away at the door,
which the old woman was not very prompt in opening. At last he opened it
himself, and came stamping into the room. The widow was sitting on a bench
by the stove, picking wool. She had not heard his knocks, and she stared
at him with amazement. He explained how he came by the letter, but she was
too deaf to understand him. Then he held the letter close under her eyes,
and shouted in her ear,

"Read it! I want to know what's in it. It's from Dietrich."

She pushed the letter away and said sharply,

"It don't belong to me. I never get any letters. Take it away."

Blasi was fairly out of patience.

"That's your name, any way," he said. "I'll read it to you; I want to know
what he says." He tore the letter open and began to read:

"HAMBURG, 14th Jan., 18--

"My Dear Jost:"

Blasi started, but he read on. It was a short lett