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 much; so she questioned her no more, for she was always tender and thoughtful of others.

The Major did not understand any connection of names, and he again alluded to the subject.

"This New Yorker said it was about a girl; but the whole thing, to me, savors of some man's hand—one who did not like him well."

Here the wife changed the subject by asking:

"Who got any letters?" I didn't see the boy when he brought the mail."

"Cherokee must have had a love letter or a secret," remarked the Major cheerily. "I saw her tearing it into tiny bits, and casting them in a white shower on the grass."

"Come, come, girlie, tell us all about it;" then suddenly the lady said: "How pale you are!"

"I do not feel well this morning," she answered; "the letter was from a friend of other days." She stumbled to her feet in a dazed sort of way, and hurried out of the house.

There was a touch of chill in the air, and the roses drooped; only wild-flower scents greeted her as she stopped and leaned against the matted honeysuckle arch by the garden gate. She searched the vine-tangle through, without finding one single blooming spray. This was Saturday; no school to-day. She felt a vague sense of relief in the