A square gray envelope with his own name written on it. He had never before got a real letter. Once he had a machinery catalogue sent to him, with a typewritten letter inside beginning "Dear Sir," but his mother had told him that it was just money they were after, but what would she say if she saw this? He did not trust himself to open it in the plain gaze of the people in the office. The girl behind the wicket noticed his excitement. "Ye needn't glue yer eye on me," Tom thought indignantly. "I'll not open it here for you to watch me. They're awful pryin' in this office. What do you bet she hasn't opened it?" He moved aside as others pressed up to the wicket, feeling that every eye was upon him. In a corner outside the door, Tom opened his letter, and laboriously made out its contents. It was written neatly with carefully shaded capitals: Dear Tom: We are going to have a party to-morrow night, because George and Fred are going back to college next week. We want you to come and bring your Englishman. We all hope you will come. Ever your friend, NELLIE SLATER. Tom read it again with burning cheeks. A party at Slater's and him invited! He walked down the street feeling just the same as when his colt got the prize at the "Fair." He felt he was a marked man--eagerly sought after--invited to parties--girls writing to him! That's what it was to have the cash!--you bet pa and ma were right!--money talks every time! When he came in sight of home his elation vanished. His father and mother would not let him go, he knew that very well. They were afraid that Nellie Slater wanted to marry him. And Nellie Slater was not eligible for the position of daughter-in-law. Nellie Slater had never patched a quilt nor even made a tie-down. She always used baking powder instead of cream of tartar and soda, and was known to have a leaning toward canned goods. Mrs. Motherwell considered her just the girl to spend a man's honest earnings and bring him to seedy ruin. Moreover, she idled away her time, teaching cats to jump, and her eighteen years old, if she was a day! Tom knew that if he went to the party it must be by stealth. When he drove up to the kitchen door his mother looked up from her ironing and asked: "What kept you, Tom?" Tom had not been detained at all, but Mrs. Motherwell always used this form of salutation to be sure. Tom grumbled a reply, and handing out the mail began to unhitch. Mrs. Motherwell read the addresses on the Englishman's letters: Mr. Arthur Wemyss, c/o Mr. S. Motherwell, Millford P.O., Manitoba, Canada, Township 8, range 16, sec't. 20. North America. "Now I wonder who's writing to him?" she said, laying the two letters down reluctantly. There was one other letter addressed to Mr. Motherwell, which she took to be a twine bill. It was post-marked Brandon. She put it up in the pudding dish on the sideboard. As Tom led the horse to the stable he met Pearl coming in with the eggs.