Lucinda acquiesced with a nod. Lucinda herself was glad that Arethusa had gone. She resented the manner in which the latter always looked over the preserve closet and counted the silver. Nothing was ever missing, because Lucinda was as honest as a day twenty-five hours long, but the more honest those of Lucinda’s caliber are, the more mad they get if they feel that they are being watched. So Lucinda acquiesced with a nod. The mistress and maid were sitting alone together, with the June rain falling without, and it was that pleasantly exciting hour which comes only in the country and is known as “about mail-time.” “There’s Joshua now,” Aunt Mary exclaimed, presently, “I see him turnin’ in the gate. He’ll be at the door before you get there, Lucinda,—he will. There, he’s twistin’ his wheel off. He’s tryin’ to hold Billy an’ hold the letters an’ whistle, all at once. Why don’t you go to him, Lucinda? Can’t you hear a whistle that I can see? Or, if you can’t hear the whistle, can’t you hear me? Do you think whoever wrote those letters would be much pleased if they could see you so slow about gettin’ them? Do—” Just here the old lady, turning toward Lucinda, perceived that she had been gone—Heaven knew how long. She felt decidedly vexed at finding herself to be in the wrong, rubbed her nose impatiently, and waited in a temper to match the rubbing. “My Lord! how slow she is!” she thought. “Well, if I don’t die of old age first, I presume I’ll get my letters some time. Maybe.” As a matter of fact, the door had blown shut behind Lucinda, and the latter personage was making her way, with well-hoisted skirts, around the house to the back door. She didn’t pass the window where the Argus-eyed was looking forth; because that lady had strong opinions of those who let doors bang behind them without their own volition. Five minutes later the maid did finally appear with one letter. “I thought you was waitin’ to bring to-morrow’s mail at the same time,” said Aunt Mary, icily. Then she found that the letter was from Jack, and Lucinda was completely forgotten in the pleasure of opening and reading it. DEAR AUNT MARY: It seems so strange how I’m just learning the pleasure of writing letters. I enjoy it more every day. When I see a pen I can hardly keep from feeling that I ought to write you directly. I think of you, then, because I’m thinking of you most always. It seems as if I never appreciated you before, Aunt Mary.