the
window, lest any one might have observed her, and searched the pages
feverishly. Yes! There it was! Her own words appeared in print!

A wealthy young man owning a silver mine in Canada would like to
correspond with a young lady who would appreciate a fine home
beside a beautiful river. In exchange for all that he can bestow
upon her he only seeks in the woman he will marry an affectionate
and kindly disposition suited to his own. Write A.B.C., P.O. Box
17, Carcajou, Ontario, Can.

During the next few days it was with unwonted eagerness that Sophy
opened the mail bags. Finally there came a letter, followed by five,
all in different handwritings and in the same mail. For another week
or ten days others dribbled in. They were all from different women,
cautiously worded, asking all manner of questions, venturing upon
descriptions of themselves. Unanimously they proclaimed themselves
bubbling over with affection and kindliness. The girl was impressed
with the wretched spelling of most of them, with the evident tone of
artificiality, with the patent fact that the writers were looking for
a bargain. All these letters, even the most poorly written, gave Sophy
the impression that the correspondents were dangerous people, she knew
not why, and might perhaps hoist her with her own petard. She studied
them over and over again, with a feeling of disappointment, and
reluctantly decided that the game was an unsafe one.

Two days had gone by without a letter to A.B.C. when at last one
turned up. At once it seemed utterly different, giving an impression
of bashfulness and timidity that contrasted with the boldness or the
caution of the others. That night, with a hand disguised as best
she could, the girl answered it. She knew that several days must
elapse before she could obtain a reply and awaited it impatiently.
It was this, in all probabilities, that made her speak snappishly to
people who came to trade in the store or avail themselves of the
post-office.

"I'm a fool," she told herself a score of times. "They all want the
money to come here and it must be enough for the return journey. This
last one ain't thought of it, but she'll ask also, in her next letter,
I bet. And I haven't got it to send; and if I had it I wouldn't do so.
They might pocket it and never turn up. And anyway I might be getting
in trouble with the postal authorities. Guess I better not answer when
it comes. I'll have to find some other way o