Doris had shown some little sense; she had taken the costly gems from her fingers. In any case it would never be safe to wear them again; they would attract too much attention. She told Earle, laughingly, that she had thrown her pretty false stones away, when, in reality, she had safely packed them where no one but herself could find them. Then, after the novelty of receiving Earle's homage again had worn off, she began to grow impatient. "I cannot stay here long, Earle," she said; "it is too terrible. When shall I hear any news?" "Soon, I am certain," was the reply. "Do not--pray, do not precipitate matters by any imprudence, Doris. Wait a few days longer." But the news came at last. On a cold, snowy morning, while the farmer and his wife sat at breakfast, they heard the postman's horn outside the gate. "News ought to keep this weather," said Mark, laughingly; "it is cold enough." Mrs. Brace hastened to the door. There was a steaming cup of coffee to be carried to the frozen postman, who took it gratefully, and gave her a large, thick letter. "It is registered, Mrs. Brace," he said, "and your husband must sign the receipt." Now, if there was anything in this world of which Mark Brace really stood in awe, it was of pen and ink. He could plow, sow, reap with any man; place a pen in his hand and an inkstand before him, and he was reduced to a state of utter imbecility. "Sign a receipt!" he said to his wife. "The man knows he has brought the letter; that ought to be enough." When he found it must be done, he submitted to it. Then it was discovered that the only inkstand in the house was in Doris' room, and that young lady asked wonderingly what they wanted ink at that early hour of the morning for. "Surely my father is not taking to literature, Mattie!" she cried. "My dear sister, when will you learn that it is in bad taste to be always sneering at our father?" was Mattie's answer. "What does he want the ink for? Tell me?" "There's a letter--a thick, registered letter--seemingly a very important one, and the receipt had to be signed." She wondered why the mocking smile died so suddenly from Doris' face--why she grew pale, and agitated, and unlike herself. "I shall be down in one moment, Mattie," she said. When she was left alone she clasped her hands together. "It has come at last!" she said--"at last!" It was ten minutes before she went down; then Mark had almost recovered from the effort he had made in signing the receipt--the postman had departed--and, like all simple-minded people, Mark and his wife were wondering from whom the letter had come, and what it was about. Doris listened quietly for a minute. Mattie was engaged in preparing tea for her sister. Then Doris said: "Do you not think it would save all trouble and discussion if you opened the letter?" Mark laughed sheepishly, and said: "She is right, you know."