One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for the mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of men were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening to the news, which some one was reading in a loud, clear voice. Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and a newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out. He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle, thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard war-news. But at last remembering that his grandfather would be anxious to have the daily paper, he started for home, though rather against his will. "I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if anybody's more'n a minute going to the office and back." "Is this all?" said aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to grandma, one to aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather. "Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did seem, to be sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters; but as he could not find another in his pocket, he supposed he must be mistaken, and said nothing about it. He little knew what a careless thing he had done, and soon went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in a strange dream of little Wampum, who had a bridle on and was hitched to a post; and of the Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have grown into a pair of shining gold muskets. A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford sat mending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks, jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something rattled when she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She thrust in her finger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a crumpled, worn letter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin." "What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must have carried the letter all summer." But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at Washington about two weeks before--"a soldier's letter." She carried it down to Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes. "Let me see," said aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder, and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?" Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried the letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it with trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed to reel about.