“Let me see it,” Josey said; and when she saw that it was from Rothsay, Ohio, she continued: “It is for me, and it is done for a joke. I will take it.” Then, hurrying home, she broke the seal and read the curious letter, amid screams of convulsive laughter, which brought both her mother and Agnes to her side. “Look here; just listen, will you?” she said, “somebody thinks I’m a man, and a gambler, and everything bad.” And she read the letter aloud, while the tears ran down her face, and she grew almost hysterical with her glee. “Did you ever know a richer joke? What a stupid thing that girl must be,” she said. But Agnes made no reply, and went quietly back to her work, while Josephine read the letter a third time, feeling a little sorry for and a little anxious about Everard. Rossie’s postscript that he seemed to like her very much touched her and brought something like moisture to her eyes; but she never for a moment thought of giving up the _debt_. She must have the fifty dollars, for the brown silk was nearly finished, and the merchant expected his money, so she wrote to Rossie as follows: “HOLBURTON, August 7th, 18—. “MISS ROSAMOND HASTINGS:— “Your letter is received, and though I am very sorry for Mr. Forrest’s illness, and agree with you that it is wrong to gamble, I must still insist upon the money, as I am in great want of it, and Mr. Forrest will tell you that my claim is a just one. I may as well add that twenty-five dollars more are due me, which I shall be glad to have you send. I have written Mr. Forrest about it, but presume he has not been able to attend to it. “Hoping he is better, I am “Yours truly, “JOE FLEMING.” Josephine’s handwriting was large and plain, and she took great pains to make it still plainer and more masculine, and Rossie, when she received the letter, had no suspicion that it was not written by a man. Hastily breaking the seal, she read, with sinking heart, that the money must be paid, and, worse than all, that it was seventy-five instead of fifty dollars, as she had supposed. And she must raise it, and save Mr. Everard from all further trouble and anxiety. He was better now, and very quiet, and had allowed her to remove the satchel of clothes from his bed. Occasionally he spoke to her of Joe, and asked if she was sure she could help him out of the scrape. “Yes, sure,” was always the reply of the brave little girl; and she must keep her word at the sacrifice of what she held most dear, her abundant and beautiful hair.