“You are going to the post-office?”

This seemed a very foolish, womanish question, seeing that he was holding letters in his hand; but he said, “Yes.”

“I want you to put a letter of mine among yours and post them all together,” she said, putting one little hand to her bosom and drawing out a letter.  He noticed that she purposely held the addressed side so that he could not see it, but he also noticed that her hand was small, thin, and white, even to a faint tint of blue in it, unlike his sister’s, the baby’s, or any other hand he had ever seen.  “Can you read?” she said suddenly, withdrawing the letter.

The boy flushed slightly at the question.  “Of course I can,” he said proudly.

“Of course, certainly,” she repeated quickly; “but,” she added, with a mischievous smile, “you mustn’t now!  Promise me!  Promise me that you won’t read this address, but just post the letter, like one of your own, in the letter-box with the others.”

Leonidas promised readily; it seemed to him a great fuss about nothing; perhaps it was some kind of game or a bet.  He opened his sunburnt hand, holding his own letters, and she slipped hers, face downward, between them.  Her soft fingers touched his in the operation, and seemed to leave a pleasant warmth behind them.

“Promise me another thing,” she added; “promise me you won’t say a word of this to any one.”

“Of course!” said Leonidas.

“That’s a good boy, and I know you will keep your word.”  She hesitated a moment, smilingly and tentatively, and then held out a bright half-dollar.  Leonidas backed from the fence.  “I’d rather not,” he said shyly.

“But as a present from me?”

Leonidas colored—­he was really proud; and he was also bright enough to understand that the possession of such unbounded wealth would provoke dangerous inquiry at home.  But he didn’t like to say it, and only replied, “I can’t.”

She looked at him curiously.  “Then—­thank you,” she said, offering her white hand, which felt like a bird in his.  “Now run on, and don’t let me keep you any longer.”  She drew back from the fence as she spoke, and waved him a pretty farewell.  Leonidas, half sorry, half relieved, darted away.

He ran to the post-office, which he never had done before.  Loyally he never looked at her letter, nor, indeed, at his own again, swinging the hand that held them far from his side.  He entered the post-office directly, going at once to the letter-box and depositing the precious missive with the others.  The post-office was also the “country store,” and Leonidas was in the habit of still further protracting his errands there by lingering in that stimulating atmosphere of sugar, cheese, and coffee.  But to-day his stay was brief, so transitory that the postmaster himself inferred audibly that “old man Boone must have been tanning Lee with a hickory switch.”  But the simple reason was that Leonidas wished to