"I'm almost seventeen, aunty, and I'm tired of being treated like a child," said Etta, with a pout of her rosy lips. "Ten years to come will be plenty time enough for you to think of such things. A valentine, indeed! I'd like to know who is to send one to you, or to any one else. There are only three unmarried men in our village; which of them would you like for your valentine; Jake Spikes, the blind fiddler; Bill Bowen, the deaf mail-boy, or Squire Sloughman? If the squire sends a valentine, I rather guess it will be to me. Oh, I forgot! There's the handsome stranger that boarded last summer with Miss Plimpkins. I noticed him at church Sunday. Come down to make a little visit and bring Miss Plimpkins a nice present ag'in, I guess. He is mighty grateful to her for taking such good care of him while he was sick. A uncommon handsome man. But 'taint a bit likely he'll think of a baby like you. He is a man old enough to know better--near forty, likely. He was monstrous polite to me; always finding the hymns, and passing his book to me. And I noticed Sunday he looked amazing pleasing at me. Land! it's ten o'clock. You'd better run over to the office and get the paper. No, I'll go myself. I want to stop in the store, to get some yarn and a little tea." Miss Henrietta hurried off, and little Etta pouted on and murmured something about: "People must have been dreadful slow and dull in aunty's young days," and then her thoughts wandered to that same handsome stranger. She, too, had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew well how the rosy blush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she had hoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; such a splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die an old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger. "Has Bill got in with the mail?" asked Miss Mayfield. "Yes, miss; here's your paper what Bill brought, and here is a letter or valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village," said the little old postmaster, with a merry laugh. Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly hand to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman," thought Miss Henrietta. "He has spoken, or rather written his hopes at last." But, no, that was not his handwriting. Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened the envelope, and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and then at the signature--Arthur Linton. "Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name of the handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking to me. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my having a little property, and that's what he's after. I'll read his valentine over again: