ew words when he brought the mail, about
the weather or the conduct of the trains. The old man appeared to stand
taller in those moments at the door, when he brought to the house the
very food of its existence. They lived upon their letters, for both the
children were away. The army boy in the Philippines; it was during the
Mindanao campaign; and Constance (Joshua, I noticed, took a deep breath
before the name), the daughter, was at school in the East. Gideon could
gauge the spirits of the two, waiting here for what he brought them. He
kept tally of the soldier's letters, the thin blue ones that came
strolling in by the transport lines. But hers--her letters were his
pride.

"'It's there all right,' he would say--'she never misses a Monday mail,
the little one!' or, as the winter months wore on--'you'll be counting
the weeks now, madam. Six more letters and then the telegram from Ogden,
and I hope it's my privilege to bring it, madam.' For as Fleming gave
him his title, the old man passed it back with a glow of emphasis,
putting devotion into the 'madam' and life service into the 'Mr.
Fleming, sir.'

"Then she came home--Constance--she was no longer the little one. Taller
than her mother, and rather silent, but her looks were a language, and
her motions about the house--I suppose no words could measure their
pride in her, or their shrinking when they thought of her in contact
with the world. People laughed a little, looking at her, when her mother
talked of the years they were going to have together. And she would
rebuke the laugh and say, 'We do not marry early in my family, nor the
Flemings either.' When the August heat came on, they thought she was too
pale--they spared her for a visit to some friends who had a houseboat
off Belvedere, or some such place. It was an ambush of fate. She came
home, thin, brown, from living on the water,--happy! too happy for
safety. She brought her fate with her, the last man you'd suppose could
ever cross her path. He was from Hawaii, an Englishman--not all English,
some of us thought. Handsome as a snake; a face that kept no marks. Eyes
all black--nothing of the pupil showing. They say such eyes are not to
be trusted. I never liked him. I'd better not try to describe him.

"It seemed madness to me, but I suppose they were no more helpless than
other fathers and mothers. He had plenty to say for himself, and
introductions--all sorts of credentials, except a pair of eyes. They had
to