"I ain't a goin fur to tell nothin more tonight," said Daddy decidedly. "If folks can't listen without interruptin me, they may wait till they ken," and he shot another meaning glance at the offending Sorrel Top. "I guess," said Sorrel Top with some asperity "you're not the only one that can tell me about it, is he Fanny?" she said turning to Fanny Green, whom she discovered to have fallen fast asleep in her chair. "'Tween you an me," said Daddy rather dryly, "I guess you won't hear no more of that are story to-night." Sorrel Top's temper was slightly ruffled and she began to shake Fanny rather roughly. "Wake up, Fanny," said she "wake up." "Oh! Mrs. Wycoff, don't whip me," mourned Fanny piteously, as she opened her eyes, "I didn't mean to go to sleep, but I was so tired." "Don't you know no better than to treat a little motherless thing in that are way?" said Daddy coming indignantly forward. "Come here, Fanny," and he took the child tenderly in his arms; "if anybody speaks a cross word to you in this are house, they'll git reported." By degrees Fanny awoke, and was borne off to bed by Mrs. Hawley. Scarcely had they gone when a new object of interest attracted Daddy's attention. There was a slight rustling at the outside door, and in stalked a sturdy Indian in blanket and leggins and soft moccasins, causing his firm tread to fall noiselessly, and giving Daddy a superstitious start, as if he had seen an apparition. The red man stated in broken English that he had brought a letter a long way from the "lodge of the pale face, to the Wolf squaw." Daddy hastened to put the letter in Little Wolf's hand. It proved to be a rather lengthy communication from Antoinette La Claire, and as all were interested, at Little Wolf's request, Louise proceeded to read it aloud. "Fairy Knoll, Jan. 20th, 18--. MY DEAR MISS DEWOLF: A faithful Indian, known for a long time to cousin John, has called here on his route to Chimney Rock and I embrace the opportunity to write to you, as it will probably be the last I shall have before spring opens. Cousin John has fitted up a cosy little room for me in the loft. It is hung around with skins and blankets, and is made comfortably warm by the fire below. There is one little window from which I obtain a fine view of the "City of Trees," which you used so much to admire. They are now shorn of their foliage, and snow and ice cover the branches, and, forsaken by their summer inhabitants, they stand and sadly moan day and night. But these mournful sounds pass unheeded, by the happy couple in this peaceful cottage. Not a cloud has yet darkened their "honeymoon." All their hours are pleasant hours, and all their dreams are pleasant dreams. On these wintry mornings we rise rather late; after the sun has peeped in at the window a long time.