“Now, Leon, listen; for here is the favor I am asking.  Mr. Jim Belcher”—­she pronounced the name with great gravity—­“will write to you in a few days.  But inside of your letter will be a little note to me, which you will bring me.  You can show your letter to your family, if they want to know who it is from; but no one must see mine.  Can you manage that?”

“Yes,” said Leonidas.  Then, as the whole idea flashed upon his quick intelligence, he smiled until he showed his dimples.  Mrs. Burroughs leaned forward over the fence, lifted his torn straw hat, and dropped a fluttering little kiss on his forehead.  It seemed to the boy, flushed and rosy as a maid, as if she had left a shining star there for every one to see.

“Don’t smile like that, Leon, you’re positively irresistible!  It will be a nice little game, won’t it?  Nobody in it but you and me—­and Belcher!  We’ll outwit them yet.  And, you see, you’ll be obliged to come to me, after all, without my asking.”

They both laughed; indeed, quite a dimpled, bright-eyed, rosy, innocent pair, though I think Leonidas was the more maidenly.

“And,” added Leonidas, with breathless eagerness, “I can sometimes write to—­to—­Jim, and inclose your letter.”

“Angel of wisdom! certainly.  Well, now, let’s see—­have you got any letters for the post to-day?” He colored again, for in anticipation of meeting her he had hurried up the family post that morning.  He held out his letters:  she thrust her own among them.  “Now,” she said, laying her cool, soft hand against his hot cheek, “run along, dear; you must not be seen loitering here.”

Leonidas ran off, buoyed up on ambient air.  It seemed just like a fairy-book.  Here he was, the confidant of the most beautiful creature he had seen, and there was a mysterious letter coming to him—­Leonidas—­and no one to know why.  And now he had a “call” to see her often; she would not forget him—­he needn’t loiter by the fencepost to see if she wanted him—­and his boyish pride and shyness were appeased.  There was no question of moral ethics raised in Leonidas’s mind; he knew that it would not be the real Jim Belcher who would write to him, but that made the prospect the more attractive.  Nor did another circumstance trouble his conscience.  When he reached the post-office, he was surprised to see the man whom he knew to be Mr. Burroughs talking with the postmaster.  Leonidas brushed by him and deposited his letters in the box in discreet triumph.  The postmaster was evidently officially resenting some imputation on his carelessness, and, concluding his defense, “No, sir,” he said, “you kin bet your boots that ef any letter hez gone astray for you or your wife—­Ye said your wife, didn’t ye?”

“Yes,” said Burroughs hastily, with a glance around the shop.

“Well, for you or anybody at your house—­it ain’t here that’s the fault.  You hear me!  I know every letter that comes in and goes outer this office, I reckon, and handle ’em all,”—­Leonidas pricked up his ears,—­“and if anybody oughter know, it’s me.  Ye kin paste that in your hat, Mr. Burroughs.”  Burroughs, apparently disconcerted by the intrusion of a third party—­Leonidas—­upon what was evidently a private inquiry, murmured something surlily, and passed out.