Openings in the Old Trail | Page 4

would give him credit for his trouble in going back for it, or his
astuteness in guessing where it was. He heaved the sigh of
misunderstood genius, and again started for the post-office. This time
he carried the letters openly and ostentatiously in his hand.
Presently he heard a voice say, "Hey!" It was a gentle, musical
voice,--a stranger's voice, for it evidently did not know how to call him,
and did not say, "Oh, Leonidas!" or "You--look here!" He was abreast
of a little clearing, guarded by a low stockade of bark palings, and
beyond it was a small white dwelling-house. Leonidas knew the place
perfectly well. It belonged to the superintendent of a mining tunnel,
who had lately rented it to some strangers from San Francisco. Thus
much he had heard from his family. He had a mountain boy's contempt
for city folks, and was not himself interested in them. Yet as he heard
the call, he was conscious of a slightly guilty feeling. He might have
been trespassing in following the rabbit's track; he might have been
seen by some one when he lost the letter and had to go back for it--all
grown-up people had a way of offering themselves as witnesses against

him! He scowled a little as he glanced around him. Then his eye fell on
the caller on the other side of the stockade.
To his surprise it was a woman: a pretty, gentle, fragile creature, all soft
muslin and laces, with her fingers interlocked, and leaning both elbows
on the top of the stockade as she stood under the checkered shadow of a
buckeye.
"Come here--please--won't you?" she said pleasantly.
It would have been impossible to resist her voice if Leonidas had
wanted to, which he didn't. He walked confidently up to the fence. She
really was very pretty, with eyes like his setter's, and as caressing. And
there were little puckers and satiny creases around her delicate nostrils
and mouth when she spoke, which Leonidas knew were "expression."
"I--I"--she began, with charming hesitation; then suddenly, "What's
your name?"
"Leonidas."
"Leonidas! That's a pretty name!" He thought it DID sound pretty.
"Well, Leonidas, I want you to be a good boy and do a great favor for
me,--a very great favor."
Leonidas's face fell. This kind of prelude and formula was familiar to
him. It was usually followed by, "Promise me that you will never swear
again," or, "that you will go straight home and wash your face," or
some other irrelevant personality. But nobody with that sort of eyes had
ever said it. So he said, a little shyly but sincerely, "Yes, ma'am."
"You are going to the post-office?"
This seemed a very foolish, womanish question, seeing that he was
holding letters in his hand; but he said, "Yes."
"I want you to put a letter of mine among yours and post them all
together," she said, putting one little hand to her bosom and drawing

out a letter. He noticed that she purposely held the addressed side so
that he could not see it, but he also noticed that her hand was small,
thin, and white, even to a faint tint of blue in it, unlike his sister's, the
baby's, or any other hand he had ever seen. "Can you read?" she said
suddenly, withdrawing the letter.
The boy flushed slightly at the question. "Of course I can," he said
proudly.
"Of course, certainly," she repeated quickly; "but," she added, with a
mischievous smile, "you mustn't NOW! Promise me! Promise me that
you won't read this address, but just post the letter, like one of your
own, in the letter-box with the others."
Leonidas promised readily; it seemed to him a great fuss about nothing;
perhaps it was some kind of game or a bet. He opened his sunburnt
hand, holding his own letters, and she slipped hers, face downward,
between them. Her soft fingers touched his in the operation, and
seemed to leave a pleasant warmth behind them.
"Promise me another thing," she added; "promise me you won't say a
word of this to any one."
"Of course!" said Leonidas.
"That's a good boy, and I know you will keep your word." She hesitated
a moment, smilingly and tentatively, and then held out a bright
half-dollar. Leonidas backed from the fence. "I'd rather not," he said
shyly.
"But as a present from ME?"
Leonidas colored--he was really proud; and he was also bright enough
to understand that the possession of such unbounded wealth would
provoke dangerous inquiry at home. But he didn't like to say it, and
only replied, "I can't."
She looked at him curiously. "Then--thank you," she said, offering her

white hand, which felt like a bird in his. "Now run on, and don't let me
keep you any longer."