"Of the family there are two; it is m'sieu the father, and m'sieu the son. For that son is the letter. I go to the town yonder. I inquire. I present myself to him." "But what is his name?" insisted Doby's mother. The voyageur smiled at her vaguely. Then she knew that he could not read the message which he carried. His instructions were to find a hunter and show the letter. Now he pawed around in his nondescript garment and brought out a soiled paper. The letter had been written on a large sheet of white paper. Then the paper had been folded in such a way that the writing was concealed and the corners turned over to look like a modern envelope. Envelopes themselves had not then been invented. It was sealed with a big red daub of wax. "Two bits" had been paid to the messenger, who now pointed to the plain script of the address, which he held carefully wrong side up. Mrs. Holman twisted her head. Then she gasped, and hastily reversing the letter in his polite and willing hand, she looked at her family with startled eyes. Letters were so much of a rarity in those good old days of long distances and slow transportation that it was perfectly correct to show interest in any man's correspondence. Indeed, every inhabitant of Vincennes had been known to handle at least twice any letter which came to town, and to register several guesses as to its probable contents, before the person to whom it was addressed felt that he had a social right to claim and open it. So Doby and his father would not have been considered in the least rude as they sprang to look over the voyageur's shoulder as the mother was already doing. They read in concert: "Obadiah Holman, Esquire Vincennes Indiana" The voyageur, who could not spell out an address, was quick enough at reading faces. He said to Mr. Holman, "I make my respects to that hunter so rich and great." And he presented the letter with formality. "No, no!" cried the father. He handed the legal-looking document to "m'sieu, the son." Now Doby had never before had a letter in his own name. His fingers were shaking and clumsy as he broke the seal, unfolded the sheet, and read in a strained and unnatural voice: "HARMONY, INDIANA, August 31, 1816 "OBADIAH HOLMAN, ESQ. "Honored Sir: "For value received in the matter of garden truck, field corn, hived honey, et cetera, saved in the shooting of a she bear by your respected self, the community of Harmony voted to pay the pelt of the bear aforesaid; likewise the pelt of the he bear belonging to the same. Said pelts herewith attached and forwarded. "Your very obedient servant, FREDERICK RAPP."