and four went without.

"Where are we going first, grandpa? to the post-office?"

"Just there!"

"How pleasant it is to go there always, isn't it, grandpa? You
have the paper to get, and I — I don't very often get a
letter, but I have always the _hope_ of getting one; and that's
something. May be I'll have one to-day, grandpa?"

"We'll see. It's time those cousins of yours wrote to you."

"O _they_ don't write to me — it's only Aunt Lucy; I never had a
letter from a single one of them, except once from little
Hugh, — don't you remember, grandpa? I should think he must be
a very nice little boy, shouldn't you?"

"Little boy? why I guess he is about as big as you are, Fleda
— he is eleven years old, ain't he?"

"Yes, but I am past eleven, you know, grandpa, and I am a
little girl."

This reasoning being unanswerable, Mr. Ringgan only bade the
old mare trot on.

It was a pleasant day in autumn. Fleda thought it particularly
pleasant for riding, for the sun was veiled with thin, hazy
clouds. The air was mild and still, and the woods, like brave