It was a wily enemy too; the letter would betray nothing as regarded identity. It was printed; the letters were smooth and even, but perfectly characterless. It was a wily enemy, but not quite a wise one, as the sending of such a letter proved.
I did not leave my room again that night, but sat for hours thinking.
The next morning as I came from the barn-yard with a pail of milk, I encountered Miss Grace Ballou. She was feeding a brood of chickens, and seemed inclined to talk with me.
"Did you ever see such fine chicks, Chris?" she asked; "and they are only two weeks old."
I stopped, of course, to admire the chickens and express my admiration in broken English.
Suddenly she moved nearer me, and said, in a lower tone:
"Chris, did you bring any letters for any one except mother, last night?"
Promptly and unblushingly, yet somewhat surprised, I answered, "No."