"No; only the first page," I says. "This last one we just took off'n Peanut's collar. He brought 'em over."
She was reading the last letter now—the one I never did see. Her face got soft somehow. Her eyes got bigger and brighter, and softer, somehow, too.
She folded the letters all up and put 'em in her lap and looked up at me.
"You didn't read all my letters, Curly?" says she.
"No," says I; "and I won't never read no more. There mustn't be no more, Bonnie Bell. You know that."
"Yes," says she; "I know that."
But somehow she didn't seem unhappy like she ought to of been. I could see that.
"How did Peanut get through the fence, Curly?" says she at last.
"There's a hole in the lower corner near the garridge. I thought it was kept shut. Their hired man dug it through. He said it was to let Peanut through to enjoy hisself digging up their petunies," says I, "or to have a sociable fight with their dog. I reckon that's how Peanut got through. It was easy enough to fasten things on his neck. Whether it was a square thing to do, him knowing what he does—well, that's something you ought to know."
She didn't say anything at that.