“Why, how do you know that?” she demanded, looking at him quizzically from under her long lashes. “Oh, don’t you suppose I can recognize the handwriting?” was his sullen reply. “Really?” She laughed. “I didn’t think you letter carriers were so smart. Considering the thousands of letters you must handle in the course of a week, I should think it would be impossible for you to remember the handwriting of each----” “I’d like to know who he is!” Owen broke in impulsively. “Why, really, Mr. Sheridan!” she exclaimed. “I think you are rather impertinent. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the contents of the letters you handle do not concern you at all. Your duty is to deliver mail, and it ends there.” Her tone was one of great indignation, but there was a merry twinkle in her eye. He was so dejected, however, that he did not notice the twinkle. “The contents of that particular letter do concern me very much, Miss Worthington,” he returned doggedly. “As a letter carrier, I admit I have no right to ask you any questions; but as a man--well, I’ve got to know what that fellow is to you. I’ve got to know what chance I stand against him. I’ve been suffering the whole week--ever since the first of those confounded letters made its appearance, and I can’t stand it any longer.” Then, before he realized what he was doing, Owen Sheridan was blurting out a proposal of marriage. The words came impulsively from his lips. When he entered the real-estate office five minutes previously, he hadn’t the slightest intention of taking such a decisive step. He was in love with the girl, to be sure, and for several weeks past had been telling himself that some day he would ask her to be his wife. But he had also told himself that the day was far off. He was not in a position to think of marrying as yet. He had been in the postal service for less than a year, and consequently was receiving only six hundred dollars per year. To marry on six hundred a year--less than twelve dollars per week--looked much too difficult. And out of this modest wage, too, he had to buy his uniforms--complete outfits for both summer and winter wear. He would have to work for at least five years more before he attained the rank of fifth-grade carrier and a salary of eleven hundred dollars, on which he could support a wife. For this reason he had hesitated to speak out before; but now jealousy, aroused by those letters from Chicago, forced the words from his lips. The blood rushed to Dallas Worthington’s cheeks as she listened to him. “You--you want me to marry you?” she gasped. “You can’t mean it. Why, you scarcely know me at all!” “Scarcely know you?” he protested. “Haven’t I been seeing you every day for the past six months?” “Yes; but only when you’ve come in here to bring the mail. You can’t learn enough about a girl to make up your mind that----”