She saw the Boston post-mark, and stretched out her hands for it longingly. 'Bring it down, there's a dear boy.' 'Not much! I bet Leander that I could make you mad, an' he bet his new jack-knife that I couldn't. I'm goin' to chew it up. It's orful thin, 'taint no good anyhow. You won't miss it, P'liney,' and crushing the letter into a small wad he put it into his capacious mouth. It was, as Lemuel said, 'awful thin,' not much like the volumes which Belle usually wrote. She had not been able to distinguish the writing, but, of course, it must be from Belle. The two cousins had grown very near to each other as the years rolled by, and a summer never passed without some of her uncle's family spending a week or two in Sleepy Hollow. Those were Pauline's red-letter days--the bright, scintillating points where she was brought into touch again with the world of thought and light and beauty. 'Throw it down to me, Lemuel, dear.' 'Can't,' said the boy coolly, 'I'm goin' ter tie it to Poll's balloon, an' let go of the string, an' then it'll go straight to heaven,' and, with the letter reposing in his cheek, he began to sing vociferously:-- '"I want ter be an angel, An' with the angels stand; A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand." 'Git mad now, P'liney, quick, fer I want that knife orful.' A cry from Polly made Pauline hurry into the house to find that Martha Spriggs had slipped while passing the child's couch, and upset a bowl of scalding milk, which she was carrying, right over the little invalid's foot. In the confusion which followed, Pauline forgot Lemuel and her longed-for letter. When she went out to look for him he was gone. 'Give it to me now, Lemuel,' she said, as he came into supper; 'you've had enough fun for to-day.' 'Can't P'liney. I used it fer a gun wad to shoot a squirrel with, an' the cat ate the squirrel, letter an' all. Yer don't want me ter kill the cat, do yer, P'liney?' 'Oh! Lemuel,' she cried softly, 'how could you? How could you do it?' She sighed sorrowfully. She had tried so hard to make Lemuel a good boy, but nothing seemed to touch him, and, young as he was, the neighbours had begun to lay the blame of every misdeed upon his shoulders, and Deacon Croaker predicted with a mournful shake of his head, 'No good will ever come of Lemuel Harding. He's a bad lot, a bad lot.' 'Sing to me!' cried Polly, 'the pain's awful!' and taking the weary little form in her arms, Pauline sang herself back into her usual happy trust. She would not tell Belle her letter had been destroyed. She must shield Lemuel. 'I'm doing my best,' she said to herself, 'God understands.' 'Ain't yer mad yit?' whispered Lemuel anxiously, as he peered into the bright peaceful face on his way to bed. The hand that stroked his tumbled hair was very gentle. 'No, Lemuel, only sorry that my boy forgot the King was looking on.'