Yours very truly, Evelyn Carryl. The Messenger's dark eyes lifted dreamily to the Colonel: "You gave her permission to send the pits by your post-rider?" "Yes," he said, smiling; "but I always look over them myself. You know the wedding gown of the fairy princess was hidden in a grape seed." "You are _quite_ sure about the pits?" "Perfectly." "Oh! When does the next batch of twenty go?" "In about an hour. Miss Carryl puts them in a bag and gives them to my messenger who brings them to me. Then I inspect every pit, tie up the bag, seal it, and give it to my messenger. When he takes the mail to the outposts he rides on for half a mile and leaves the sealed bag at Deal's farm." "Does your messenger know what is in the bag?" "No, he doesn't." She nodded, amused, saying carelessly: "Of course you trust your post-rider?" "Absolutely." The Special Messenger swung her foot absently to and fro, and presently opened another letter: Dear Mr. Deal: I am sending you twenty more peach pits for planting. What you write me about the bees is satisfactory. I have received the bees you sent. There is no reason why you should not make the exchange with Mr. Enderly, as it will benefit our hives as well as Mr. Enderly's to cross his Golden Indias with my Blacks. The Messenger studied the letter thoughtfully; askance, the officer watched the delicate play of expression on her absorbed young face, perhaps a trifle incredulous that so distractingly pretty a woman could be quite as intelligent as people believed. She looked up at him quietly. "So you gave Deal permission to send some bees to Miss Carryl and write her a letter?" "Once. I had the letter brought to me and I sent her a copy. Here it is--the original." He produced Deal's letter from the dispatch pouch, and the Messenger read: Miss Evelyn Carryl, Osage Court House. Respected Miss: I send you the bees. I seen Mr. Enderly at Sandy River he says he is very wishful for to swap bees to cross the breed I says it shorely can be done if you say so I got the pits and am studyin' how to plant. The fruit is a rottin' can't the Yankees at Osage buy some truck nohow off'n me? So no more with respect from John Deal Supt. "That seems rather harmless, doesn't it?" asked the Colonel wearily. "I don't--know. I _think_ I'll take a look at John Deal's beehives." "His _beehives_!" "Yes." "What for?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know--exactly. I was always fond of bees. They're so useful"--she looked up artlessly--"so clever--quite wonderful, Colonel. Have you ever read anything about bees--how they live and conduct themselves?" The Colonel eyed her narrowly; she laughed, sprang up from the military chest, and handed back his letters.