"No, I must take it myself," she said, smilingly, holding the letter behind her like a child.
There was something fine in carrying the letter to the office herself. It seemed to hasten it. The horse was spirited and carried her at a steady swift trot up hill and down, and the railway track was soon in sight.
Suddenly an idea seized her; why not telegraph her answer. They might suspect him to be her lover, but what did she care now? She penned this message:
"Come up tomorrow if you can, please. Rose."
But afterward, as she approached the office, she shrank from handing it in. It seemed to her too plainly a love message. She mailed her letter and fell to calculating when it would reach him. He could not possibly come till the second day, whereas if she telegraphed he might arrive in the morning. This thought strengthened her resolution; going over to the window she placed the message firmly before the operator, who knew her and admired her deeply.
"Please send that at once, Mr. Bingham."
The operator smiled and bowed, and when he read the message he looked up at her keenly, but did not smile.
"Any answer?" he asked.
"No, probably not," she replied. "Will it go right out?"
"Immediately."