"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. Maybe 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 men, putting the best face upon
falling fortunes. Some trees were already dropping their leaves; the
greater part standing in all the varied splendour which the late frosts
had given them. The road, an excellent one, sloped gently up and down