"You—you said you were expecting a letter, did n't you?" began Ethel hopefully.
"Well, so were you, were n't you?" The tone showed quick irritation.
"Why, yes, but—"
"Well, don't you think it is yours?"
"Why, I—I don't know. It might be, of course; but—"
"You said you thought it was yours, the very first thing."
"Yes, I know; but—well, perhaps it is."
"Of course it is," asserted James, as he ran down the steps. And
Ethel, looking after him, frowned in vague wonder.
Thursday morning's mail brought four letters, and Ethel blushed prettily as she tucked them all in her belt.
"But they aren't all yours," protested her brother James.