Leonidas was puzzled.  That big man seemed to be “snoopin’” around for something!  He knew that he dared not touch the letter-bag,—­Leonidas had heard somewhere that it was a deadly crime to touch any letters after the Government had got hold of them once, and he had no fears for the safety of hers.  But ought he not go back at once and tell her about her husband’s visit, and the alarming fact that the postmaster was personally acquainted with all the letters?  He instantly saw, too, the wisdom of her inclosing her letter hereafter in another address.  Yet he finally resolved not to tell her to-day,—­it would look like “hanging round” again; and—­another secret reason—­he was afraid that any allusion to her husband’s interference would bring back that change in her beautiful face which he did not like.  The better to resist temptation, he went back another way.

It must not be supposed that, while Leonidas indulged in this secret passion for the beautiful stranger, it was to the exclusion of his boyish habits.  It merely took the place of his intellectual visions and his romantic reading.  He no longer carried books in his pocket on his lazy rambles.  What were mediaeval legends of high-born ladies and their pages to this real romance of himself and Mrs. Burroughs?  What were the exploits of boy captains and juvenile trappers and the Indian maidens and Spanish senoritas to what was now possible to himself and his divinity here—­upon Casket Ridge!  The very ground around her was now consecrated to romance and adventure.  Consequently, he visited a few traps on his way back which he had set for “jackass-rabbits” and wildcats,—­the latter a vindictive reprisal for aggression upon an orphan brood of mountain quail which he had taken under his protection.  For, while he nourished a keen love of sport, it was controlled by a boy’s larger understanding of nature:  a pantheistic sympathy with man and beast and plant, which made him keenly alive to the strange cruelties of creation, revealed to him some queer animal feuds, and made him a chivalrous partisan of the weaker.  He had even gone out of his way to defend, by ingenious contrivances of his own, the hoard of a golden squirrel and the treasures of some wild bees from a predatory bear, although it did not prevent him later from capturing the squirrel by an equally ingenious contrivance, and from eventually eating some of the honey.

He was late home that evening.  But this was “vacation,”—­the district school was closed, and but for the household “chores,” which occupied his early mornings, each long summer day was a holiday.  So two or three passed; and then one morning, on his going to the post-office, the postmaster threw down upon the counter a real and rather bulky letter, duly stamped, and addressed to Mr. Leonidas Boone!  Leonidas was too discreet to open it before witnesses, but in the solitude of the trail home broke the seal.  It contained another letter with no address—­clearly the one she expected—­and, more marvelous still, a sheaf of trout-hooks, with delicate gut-snells such as Leonidas had only dared to dream of.  The letter to himself was written in a clear, distinct hand, and ran as follows:—­