"Well, don't you ever tell, Elizabeth, because I might get teased, but I'm writing to a boy right now. That is, I am going to be when I've answered his letter. It isn't a silly boy, though, it's a sensible boy—a boy that knows a lot of things I want to learn about. Chester Reynolds, you know, that I've told you about winning the tennis cups. I got a letter from him last night. It isn't supposed to be very nice to show letters, but if you'd like to see this one, I'll bring it around to-morrow, and then I'll bring my answer to it, and let you see what you think of that."
"All right," Elizabeth agreed.
"Isn't it a funny thing, he is the only boy that I ever thought I'd like to correspond with, and now he has just sat himself down and written to me."
"I think that's very nice." Elizabeth said. "There's a boy in New York that I felt that same way about. He sort of offered to send me a copy of 'Prometheus Bound,' but I knew if he did that I should have to write and thank him, and I didn't know whether Mother would approve of my writing him like that when I was away from home, so I didn't say anything more about it."
"What is 'Prometheus Bound,' anyway?" Peggy inquired.
"Well, I think it is a kind of a blank verse poem or book, something like Whittier's 'Snow Bound,' but I'm not sure. That was one reason that I wanted him to send it—so I could find out. He was quite a literary boy, one of Jeanie's friends. He's very good looking, though."
"I don't like literary boys as a rule, though, do you?" Peggy asked. "They usually wear rubbers and horn rims, and have to mind their mothers."
"Not any friend of Jeanie's. Her friends are always all-around boys. They must have brains, too."
"Oh!" Peggy said, impressed.
The crowd on the post-office steps was beginning to thicken. The big bags, bulging with mail, had been passed behind the glass façade of the mail-box section, and behind the closed wicket that indicated the distribution was taking place the silent postmaster and his assistant worked with grim, accustomed rapidity.