“Yes,” she said, smiling, and showing her dimples in a sudden access of pleasure at the thought of getting rid of him, “I really believe I am.”
He lifted his hat, and stood for some moments on the corner watching her vanish from sight. How slender she was, and graceful, and what a sweet little smile had accompanied her nod of farewell! Now he thought of it, her eyes had queer lights in them, baffling, as if she were laughing at him all the time. And her tone was half mocking, too, though he had taken it seriously enough in all conscience. Was she serious, or had he made an idiot of himself? This latter contingency was not one which presented itself with marked frequency to the mind of Kenneth Landor, and therefore gave him much food for reflection as the day wore on.
CHAPTER VIII
“Whom in the world do we know in New Hampshire?” asked Julie one morning, glancing askance at an envelope in her hand.
“Suppose you open it and find out,” meekly suggested Hester, peeping over her shoulder.
“Why, see, it is addressed to us both—it’s probably an invitation or something.”
“It is not,” asserted Julie; “I can tell by the look of it. It’s—why, Hester Dale, it’s a fifty dollar bill.”
“What?” ejaculated Hester.
“It is, and a note. Think of daring to trust such a thing by mail! Look at it yourself.”
Hester seized both the bill and the letter, and unfolding the latter found the following mysterious communication in typewriting: