"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.

"Where are we going now, grandpa?"

"To Queechy Run."

"That will give us a nice long ride. I am very glad. This has been a
good day. With my letter and my bittersweet I have got enough, haven't
I, grandpa?"

Queechy Run was a little village, a very little village, about half a mile
from Mr. Ringgan's house. It boasted however a decent brick church of some
size, a school-house, a lawyer's office, a grocery store, a dozen or two
of dwelling-houses, and a post-office; though for some reason or other Mr.
Ringgan always chose to have his letters come through the Sattlersville
post-office, a mile and a half further off. At the door of the lawyer's
office Mr. Ringgan again stopped, and again shouted "Holloa!"--

"Good-day, sir. Is Mr. Jolly within?"

"He is, sir."

"Will you ask him to be so good as to step here a moment? I cannot very