nd--by Jove,
it's Dennison's letter!" he finished joyfully, thrusting an eager thumb
under the flap of the other envelope.

Twenty minutes later, with head erect and shoulders squared, the senior
member of the firm of Clayton & Company left his home and hurried down
the street. Behind him, on the veranda steps, were a young man and a
young girl looking into each other's faces in blank dismay.

"You--you said _you_ were expecting a letter, did n't you?" began Ethel
hopefully.

"Well, so were you, were n't you?" The tone showed quick irritation.

"Why, yes, but--"

"Well, don't you think it is yours?"

"Why, I--I don't know. It might be, of course; but--"

"You _said_ you thought it was yours, the very first thing."

"Yes, I know; but--well, perhaps it is."

"Of course it is," asserted James, as he ran down the steps. And
Ethel, looking after him, frowned in vague wonder.

Thursday morning's mail brought four letters, and Ethel blushed
prettily as she tucked them all in her belt.

"But they aren't all yours," protested her brother James.

"But they are!" she laughed.

"All?"

"All."

"But _I_ was expecting a letter."

"Oh-ho!--so you were, were you?" teased the girl merrily. Ethel could
afford to be merry; she had recognized a certain bold handwriting on
one of the envelopes. "I really don't see, then, but you 'll have to
go to Rover. Perhaps he can tell you where it is."

"Confound that dog!" growled James, turning on his heel.

"I'm going to accept Fred's invitation," soliloquized Ethel happily, as
she hurried into her own room. "I shall read his first, so, of course,
that will be the first one that I get!"

The noon delivery brought no letters for any one. James Clayton
fidgeted about the house all the afternoon instead of going down to the
golf club to see the open handicap--the annual club event. He felt
that, in the present state of affairs, he could take no chances of
seeing a certain young woman who was just then very much in his
thoughts. If she _had_ written, and he should meet her as though she
had not!--his blood chilled at the thought; and if she had not written,
and he should meet her as though she had!--To James Clayton, at the
moment, the thought of her precious letter lost forever to his longing
eyes was only a shade worse than that there should have been no letter
at all.

Five o'clock came, bringing the last mail--and still no letter. In the
Clayton residence that