miserable to-night as to be awake even then.

"With my love,

"MOLLY."

Whimsically, Stanton rummaged around in the creases of the bed-spread
and extricated the little folded paper marked, "No. 1 o'clock." The
news in it was utterly brief.

"My hair is red," was all that it announced.

With a sniff of amusement Stanton collapsed again into his pillows.
For almost an hour then he lay considering solemnly whether a
red-headed girl could possibly be pretty. By two o'clock he had
finally visualized quite a striking, Juno-esque type of beauty with a
figure about the regal height of Cornelia's, and blue eyes perhaps
just a trifle hazier and more mischievous.

But the little folded paper marked, "No. 2 o'clock," announced
destructively: "My eyes are brown. And I am _very_ little."

With an absurdly resolute intention to "play the game" every bit as
genuinely as Miss Serial-Letter Co. was playing it, Stanton refrained
quite heroically from opening the third dose of news until at least
two big, resonant city clocks had insisted that the hour was ripe. By
that time the grin in his face was almost bright enough of itself to
illuminate any ordinary page.

"I am lame," confided the third message somewhat depressingly. Then