"I beg your pardon--it was only that I did not recognize them as 'the girls.'" "Well, I suppose they really are not quite girls any longer," responded Cousin Sarah Cray, thoughtfully. "Polly is forty-four and Leontine fifty-two; but I reckon they will always be 'the girls' to us, even if they're eighty," she added, laughing. "Well, Polly had this idea. And she has been so successful--you can't think! Her bread-cart goes over to Mellons every day of your life, as regularly as the clock. And they buy a great deal." "It's the camp, isn't it?--Camp Mellons?" "No; it has always been Mellons, Mellons Post-office. The camp is near there, and it has some Yankee name or other, I believe; but of course you know, my dear, that _we_ never go there." "You only sell them bread. I am glad, at least, that they buy Miss Polly's. And does Miss Leontine help?" "I fancy not. Dear Miss Leontine is not as practical as Miss Polly; she has a soft poetical nature, and she makes beautiful afghans. But the judge prefers Miss Polly." "Does he really admire her?" said Eve, with a sudden inspiration. "Beyond everything," answered Cousin Sarah Cray, clasping her plump hands. "Then will you please go out and tell him that she is coming here to tea, that she will be here immediately?" "Mercy! But she won't." "Yes, she will; I will go and ask her. Do please make haste, Mrs. Cray; we are so afraid, Cicely and I, that he will try to whip a negro." "Mercy!" said Cousin Sarah Cray again, this time in alarm; stout as she was, she ran swiftly through the hall and across the veranda, her cap strings flying, and disappeared on the way to the stables. Eve carried little Jack up-stairs, and gave him to Deely, the house-maid; then, retracing her steps, she went out through the side-gate, and up the street to the home of the Misses Wingfield. The door stood open, Miss Polly was in the hall. She was a handsome woman, vigorous, erect, with clear blue eyes, and thick sandy hair closely braided round her well-shaped head. Eve explained her errand. "But perhaps Miss Leontine told you?" she added. "No, Lonny told me nothing; she went straight to her room. I noticed that she had been crying; but she is so sweet that she cries rather easily. Whip, indeed! _I'd_ rather shoot." "We must keep the _judge_ from being whipped," Eve answered. "Yes, I suppose so; he is an old man, though he doesn't look it. I will go with you, of course. Or rather I will follow you in a few moments." The post-office of Gary Hundred was opposite the Wingfield house; as Eve crossed the broad street on her way back, the postmaster appeared at his door, and beckoned to her mysteriously. He was a small elderly negro, with a dignified manner; he wore blue goggles; Eve knew him slightly, she had paid several visits to the office, and had been treated with deferential attention. When she reached the sidewalk, therefore, she paused. "Would yer min' droppin' in fer one brief momen', miss? 'Portant marter."