Openings in the Old Trail | Page 7

friend in San
Francisco--some one who MIGHT write to you?" she suggested
pleasantly.
"I knew a boy once who went to San Francisco," said Leonidas
doubtfully. "At least, he allowed he was goin' there."
"That will do," said Mrs. Burroughs. "I suppose your parents know him
or of him?"
"Why," said Leonidas, "he used to live here."
"Better still. For, you see, it wouldn't be strange if he DID write. What

was the gentleman's name?"
"Jim Belcher," returned Leonidas hesitatingly, by no means sure that
the absent Belcher knew how to write. Mrs. Burroughs took a tiny
pencil from her belt, opened the letter she was holding in her hand, and
apparently wrote the name in it. Then she folded it and sealed it,
smiling charmingly at Leonidas's puzzled face.
"Now, Leon, listen; for here is the favor I am asking. Mr. Jim
Belcher"--she pronounced the name with great gravity--"will write to
you in a few days. But inside of YOUR letter will be a little note to me,
which you will bring me. You can show your letter to your family, if
they want to know who it is from; but no one must see MINE. Can you
manage that?"
"Yes," said Leonidas. Then, as the whole idea flashed upon his quick
intelligence, he smiled until he showed his dimples. Mrs. Burroughs
leaned forward over the fence, lifted his torn straw hat, and dropped a
fluttering little kiss on his forehead. It seemed to the boy, flushed and
rosy as a maid, as if she had left a shining star there for every one to
see.
"Don't smile like that, Leon, you're positively irresistible! It will be a
nice little game, won't it? Nobody in it but you and me-- and Belcher!
We'll outwit them yet. And, you see, you'll be obliged to come to me,
after all, without my asking."
They both laughed; indeed, quite a dimpled, bright-eyed, rosy, innocent
pair, though I think Leonidas was the more maidenly.
"And," added Leonidas, with breathless eagerness, "I can sometimes
write to--to--Jim, and inclose your letter."
"Angel of wisdom! certainly. Well, now, let's see--have you got any
letters for the post to-day?" He colored again, for in anticipation of
meeting her he had hurried up the family post that morning. He held
out his letters: she thrust her own among them. "Now," she said, laying
her cool, soft hand against his hot cheek, "run along, dear; you must not

be seen loitering here."
Leonidas ran off, buoyed up on ambient air. It seemed just like a
fairy-book. Here he was, the confidant of the most beautiful creature he
had seen, and there was a mysterious letter coming to
him--Leonidas--and no one to know why. And now he had a "call" to
see her often; she would not forget him--he needn't loiter by the
fencepost to see if she wanted him--and his boyish pride and shyness
were appeased. There was no question of moral ethics raised in
Leonidas's mind; he knew that it would not be the real Jim Belcher who
would write to him, but that made the prospect the more attractive. Nor
did another circumstance trouble his conscience. When he reached the
post-office, he was surprised to see the man whom he knew to be Mr.
Burroughs talking with the postmaster. Leonidas brushed by him and
deposited his letters in the box in discreet triumph. The postmaster was
evidently officially resenting some imputation on his carelessness, and,
concluding his defense, "No, sir," he said, "you kin bet your boots that
ef any letter hez gone astray for you or your wife-- Ye said your wife,
didn't ye?"
"Yes," said Burroughs hastily, with a glance around the shop.
"Well, for you or anybody at your house--it ain't here that's the fault.
You hear me! I know every letter that comes in and goes outer this
office, I reckon, and handle 'em all,"--Leonidas pricked up his
ears,--"and if anybody oughter know, it's me. Ye kin paste that in your
hat, Mr. Burroughs." Burroughs, apparently disconcerted by the
intrusion of a third party--Leonidas--upon what was evidently a private
inquiry, murmured something surlily, and passed out.
Leonidas was puzzled. That big man seemed to be "snoopin'" around
for something! He knew that he dared not touch the letter-bag,--
Leonidas had heard somewhere that it was a deadly crime to touch any
letters after the Government had got hold of them once, and he had no
fears for the safety of hers. But ought he not go back at once and tell
her about her husband's visit, and the alarming fact that the postmaster
was personally acquainted with all the letters? He instantly saw, too,
the wisdom of her inclosing her letter hereafter in another address. Yet

he finally resolved not to tell her to-day,--it would look