g appetite. Now each frail flower
had laid its slender length along the earth, and the little
postmistress watched them wistfully from her rain-stained window.

She had expected to part with her flowers; she was going away forever in
a few days--somewhere--she was not yet quite certain where. But now that
her flowers lay prone, bruised and broken, the idea of leaving them
behind her distressed her sorely.

She picked up her crutch and walked to the door. It was no use; the rain
warned her back. She sat down again by the window to watch her wounded
flowers.

There was something else that distressed her too, although the paradox
of parting from a person she had never met ought to have appealed to her
sense of humor. But she did not think of that; never, since she had been
postmistress in Nauvoo, had she spoken one word to James Helm, nor had
he ever spoken to her. He had a key to his letter-box; he always came
towards evening.

It was exactly a year ago to-day that Helm came to Nauvoo--a silent,
pallid young fellow with unresponsive eyes and the bearing of a
gentleman. He was cordially detested in Nauvoo. For a year she had
watched him enter the post-office, unlock his letter-box, swing on his
heel and walk away, with never a glance at her nor a sign of recognition
to any of the village people who might be there. She heard people
exchange uncomplimentary opinions concerning him; she heard him sneered
at, denounced, slandered.

Naturally, being young and lonely and quite free from malice towards
anybody, she had time to construct a romance around Helm--a very
innocent romance of well-worn pattern and on most unoriginal lines.
Into this romance she sometimes conducted herself, blushing secretly at
her mental indiscretion, which indiscretion so worried her that she
dared not even look at Helm that evening when he came for his mail. She
was a grave, gentle little thing--a child still whose childhood had been
a tragedy and whose womanhood promised only that shadow of happiness
called contentment which comes from a blameless life and a nature which
accepts sorrow without resentment.

Thinking of Helm as she sat there by the window, she heard the office
clock striking five. Five was Helm's usual hour, so she hid her crutch.
It was her one vanity--that he should not know that she was lame.

She rose and lifted the two volumes of agricultural reports from the
blotters where Helm's letter lay, then she carefully raised one