was anything for them; he knew that Spot had his team tied to the side fence and had come in from the fields not to rest, but to get his mail, but nothing would hurry him. It was too delightful to tease this stolid family of his.
"Um humm! A letter for Myra! I'll be bound it is from that patent dust-pan agent. Perhaps he is coming a courting. A magazine for Evelyn with a recipe for serving up missionaries hot and tasty! Another letter for Myra! I bet it's a bill. Here's something for Spot—not from a lady, Spot. They won't write to you unless you write to them."
As he turned over the letters he came upon one for himself in an unknown handwriting. It was written in violet ink on salmon pink paper and smelled of musk.
"See! The ladies write to me whether I do to them or not. I wonder from whom this is. Special delivery stamp, too!"
His daughters let their own mail lie unopened, so interested were they in their father's letter. He saw their excitement and deliberated wickedly before opening it.
"Postmarked New York! I wonder who can be writing me from New York! Sent two days ago! What do I tell you about that postman? He is simply outrageous about keeping mail
