Love Letters

"A week!" Ruth said to herself the next morning. "Seven long days! No
letter, because he mustn't write, no telegram, because there's no office
within ten miles--nothing to do but wait!"

When she went down to breakfast, Hepsey did not seem to hear her cheery
greeting, but was twisting her apron and walking about restlessly. "Miss
Thorne," she said, at length, "did you ever get a love letter?"

"Why, yes, of course," laughed Ruth. "Every girl gets love letters."

Hepsey brightened visibly, then inquired, with great seriousness: "Can
you read writin', Miss Thorne?"

"That depends on the writing."

"Yes'm, it does so. I can read some writin'--I can read Miss Hathaway's
writin', and some of the furrin letters she's had, but I got some this
mornin' I can't make out, nohow."

"Where did you find 'writing' this morning? It's too early for the mail,
isn't it?"

"Yes'm. It was stuck under the kitchen winder." Hepsey looked up at the
ceiling in an effort to appear careless, and sighed. Then she clutched
violently at the front of her blue gingham dress, immediately repenting
of her rashness. Ruth was inwardly amused but asked no helpful
questions.

Finally, Hepsey took the plunge. "Would you mind tryin' to make out some
writin' I've got, Miss Thorne?"

"Of course not--let me see it."

Hepsey extracted a letter from the inmost recesses of her attire and
stood expectantly, with her hands on her hips.

"Why, it's a love letter!" Ruth exclaimed.

"Yes'm. When you get through readin' it to yourself, will you read it
out loud?"