ou did n't write?"

"Write? Why, no, of course not! We were n't to, you know, if we could
come."

"Yes--er--I mean no," stammered Mrs. Clayton, trying to calculate just
how long it would take the maid to put three rooms in order.

At half-past six the family, with their guests, sat down to a dinner
that showed unmistakable signs of having been started as a simple one
for six, and finished as a would-be elaborate one for ten. To the
faces of Mr. Clayton, Ethel, and James the cloud of the morning had
returned. Mrs. Clayton, confident that the missing letter contained
nothing worse for her than its absence had already brought her, looked
comparatively serene.

After dinner, as by common consent, Mr. Clayton and his elder son and
daughter met in a secluded comer of the library.

"Hang it all, dad, _now_ whose letter do you suppose that was?" began
James aggressively.

"It's mine," groaned the father, with a shake of his head. "I know
it's mine."

"But it might n't be," demurred Ethel, with a hesitation that showed a
fear lest her suggestion meet with prompt acceptance.

"I tell you I know it's mine," retorted Mr. Clayton, and Ethel sighed
her relief. "I did hope 't was your mother's," he continued; "but I
might have known better. It's mine, and--and it means dollars to
me--hundreds of them."

"Why, father!" The two voices were one in shocked surprise.

"Well, it does. Dennison was going to drop me a line here if certain
things happened. And if they have happened, and I don't sell my P. &
Z. before to-morrow noon, it 'll mean--well, there 'll be something to
pay. On the other hand, if those certain things have n't happened, and
I do sell--it 'll be worse."

"Well, well," laughed James in a surprisingly buoyant tone, considering
the gloom on his father's face. "I guess the letter was yours all
right. I should take it so, anyhow, and go ahead and sell."

"Yes, so should I," tossed Ethel over her shoulder as she tripped
happily away.

"After all," mused James, slowly crossing the hall, "it could n't have
been my letter. May would n't have written so soon; she 'd have waited
until nearer Thursday. She would n't let me have the 'yes' quite so
quickly. Not she!--the little tease of a sweetheart!"

On Wednesday morning, at half-past eight, the maid brought in the mail
and laid it at her master's plate. There were a paper and two letters.

"Hm-m," began Mr. Clayton, "one for you, Julia, my dear, a