lasses so hard to-day, had to be chopped--"

"Oh, now, Mrs. Crocker!"

The fat post-mistress was still handling the pile of finger-soiled
letters. "Oh, there's one for Mrs. Lamb."

"We are going there. I'll take it."

"Thanks, miss. She's right constant in coming for letters, but the
letters they don't come, and now here's one at last." Leila tucked it
into her belt. "I tell you, Miss Leila, a post-office is a place to make
you laugh one day and cry the next. When you see a girl from the country
come here twice a week for maybe two months and then go away trying that
hard to make believe it wasn't of any account. There ought to be some one
to write 'em letters--just to say, 'Don't cry, he'll come.' It might be a
queer letter."

Rivers wondered at the very abrupt and very American introduction of
unexpected sentiment and humour.

"Let me know and I'll write them, Mrs. Crocker," cried Leila. She had the
very youthful reflection that it was odd for such a fat woman to be
sentimental.

"I should like to open all the letters for a week, Mrs. Crocker," said
Rivers.

"Wouldn't Uncle Sam make a row?"

"He would, indeed!"

"Idle curiosity," laughed Leila, as they went out into the storm.

He made no reply and reflected on this young woman's developmental change
and the gaiety which he so lacked.

Leila, wondering what Peter wrote to the lonely old widow, went to look
for her in the kitchen, while Rivers sat down in the neatly kept front
room. He waited long. At last Leila came out alone, and as they walked
away she said, "The letter was from Peter."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, I got it all out of her."

"Got what?"

"She gets three dollars a week from Aunt Ann and all her vegetables from
Aunt Ann, and she is all the time complaining to Uncle Jim. Then, of
course, Uncle Jim gives her more money--and Peter gets it--"

"Where is he?"

"Oh, in Philadelphia, and here and there."

"You should tell the Squire."

"No, I think not."

"Perhaps--yes--perhaps you are right." And facing the wild norther she
left him at his door and went homewards with a new burden of thought on
her mind.

The winter broke up and late in May Penhallow left home on business. He
wrote from Philadelphia:

"My dear Ann: Trade is dead, money still locked up, and the railways
hesitating to give orders for much-needed rails. I have one small order,
which will keep us going, but will hardly pay.

"I never talk of the political disorder, but no