"I'll tell you what I'd do 'bout it, if I was you," said Shorty Smith to the twins, several days later, as he handed back a folded sheet of paper. "I'd git your teacher to read that there letter. There's something in it she ought to know 'bout. Better not tell her first where you got it. Let on you don't know where it come from. There's somethin' there she'll like to hear 'bout, that you kids ain't old enough to understand." "Oh, is that so!" interposed Dan. "I ain't a-goin' to tell you nothin' about it, but like enough she will, an'll thank you fer givin' it to her," said Shorty. "If that writin' wasn't so funny I'd make it out myself," replied the soft-voiced twin, "fer I think you're jobbin' us, Shorty." "No, I ain't," he replied. "An' I'll back up my friendship fer you by givin' you this!" He took from his pocket a silver dollar and handed it to the boy, who pocketed it, and, followed by his brother, walked away without another word. Shorty Smith also walked away, in the opposite direction, without a word, but he chuckled to himself, and his mood was exceedingly jubilant. "She done us all right, an' may play the devil yet, but I'll git in a little work, er my name ain't Shorty Smith!" Such was the substance of his thoughts during the next few days. That afternoon Hope stood in the doorway of the school-house, watching her little brood of pupils straggling down the hill. Louisa, who came daily to be with her beloved friend, had started home with the two eldest Harris girls, for Hope, in her capacity of teacher, occasionally found work to detain her for a short time after the others had gone. This teaching school was not exactly play, after all. The twins lingered behind, seemingly engaged in a quiet discussion. Finally they came back to the door. "Here's somethin' for you to read," said the soft-voiced boy, handing her a folded paper, while Dave leaned against the building with an ugly scowl on his face. "To read," asked Hope, turning it over in her hand. "Who wrote it, and where did you get it?" She stepped out of the doorway onto the green grass beside them. "Read it," said the breed boy. "It's somethin' you ought to know." "Something I ought to know? But who wrote it?" insisted the girl. "A woman, I reckon," replied the boy. "You just read it, an' then you'll know all about it." Hope laughed, and slowly opened the much soiled, creased missive. "Why didn't you tell me at once that it was for me?" she asked. The writing was in a bold, feminine back-hand, and held her attention for a moment. The thought occurred to her that Clarice might have written from the ranch, but there was something unfamiliar about it. She looked first at the signature. "Your repentant Helene," it was signed. Helene,--who was Helene, she wondered; then turned the paper over. "My darling Boy," it started. In her surprise she said the words aloud.