"Why do you keep him, grandpa, if he don't behave right?"
Fleda ventured to ask, gently.

" 'Cause I can't get rid of him, dear," Mr. Ringgan answered,
rather shortly.

And till they got to the post-office, he seemed in a
disagreeable kind of muse, which Fleda did not choose to break
in upon. So the mile and a half was driven in sober silence.

"Shall I get out and go in, grandpa?" said Fleda, when he drew
up before the house.

"No, deary," said he, in his usual kind tone; "you sit still.
Holloa, there! — Good-day, Mr. Sampion — have you got anything
for me?"

The man disappeared and came out again.

"There's your paper, grandpa," said Fleda.

"Ay, and something else," said Mr. Ringgan: "I declare! —
'Miss Fleda Ringgan — care of E. Ringgan, Esq.' —There, dear,
there it is."

"Paris!" exclaimed Fleda, as she clasped the letter and both
her hands together. The butternuts and Mr. Didenhover were
forgotten at last. The letter could not be read in the jolting
of the wagon, but, as Fleda said, it was all the pleasanter,
for she had the expectation of it the whole way home.