"Soon, I am certain," was the reply. "Do not—pray, do not precipitate matters by any imprudence, Doris. Wait a few days longer."
But the news came at last. On a cold, snowy morning, while the farmer and his wife sat at breakfast, they heard the postman's horn outside the gate.
"News ought to keep this weather," said Mark, laughingly; "it is cold enough."
Mrs. Brace hastened to the door. There was a steaming cup of coffee to be carried to the frozen postman, who took it gratefully, and gave her a large, thick letter.
"It is registered, Mrs. Brace," he said, "and your husband must sign the receipt."
Now, if there was anything in this world of which Mark Brace really stood in awe, it was of pen and ink. He could plow, sow, reap with any man; place a pen in his hand and an inkstand before him, and he was reduced to a state of utter imbecility.
"Sign a receipt!" he said to his wife. "The man knows he has brought the letter; that ought to be enough."
When he found it must be done, he submitted to it. Then it was discovered that the only inkstand in the house was in Doris' room, and that young lady asked wonderingly what they wanted ink at that early hour of the morning for.
"Surely my father is not taking to literature, Mattie!" she cried.
"My dear sister, when will you learn that it is in bad taste to be always sneering at our father?" was Mattie's answer.