"It's mine," groaned the father, with a shake of his head. "I know it's mine." "But it might n't be," demurred Ethel, with a hesitation that showed a fear lest her suggestion meet with prompt acceptance. "I tell you I know it's mine," retorted Mr. Clayton, and Ethel sighed her relief. "I did hope 't was your mother's," he continued; "but I might have known better. It's mine, and--and it means dollars to me--hundreds of them." "Why, father!" The two voices were one in shocked surprise. "Well, it does. Dennison was going to drop me a line here if certain things happened. And if they have happened, and I don't sell my P. & Z. before to-morrow noon, it 'll mean--well, there 'll be something to pay. On the other hand, if those certain things have n't happened, and I do sell--it 'll be worse." "Well, well," laughed James in a surprisingly buoyant tone, considering the gloom on his father's face. "I guess the letter was yours all right. I should take it so, anyhow, and go ahead and sell." "Yes, so should I," tossed Ethel over her shoulder as she tripped happily away. "After all," mused James, slowly crossing the hall, "it could n't have been my letter. May would n't have written so soon; she 'd have waited until nearer Thursday. She would n't let me have the 'yes' quite so quickly. Not she!--the little tease of a sweetheart!" On Wednesday morning, at half-past eight, the maid brought in the mail and laid it at her master's plate. There were a paper and two letters. "Hm-m," began Mr. Clayton, "one for you, Julia, my dear, and--by Jove, it's Dennison's letter!" he finished joyfully, thrusting an eager thumb under the flap of the other envelope. Twenty minutes later, with head erect and shoulders squared, the senior member of the firm of Clayton & Company left his home and hurried down the street. Behind him, on the veranda steps, were a young man and a young girl looking into each other's faces in blank dismay. "You--you said _you_ were expecting a letter, did n't you?" began Ethel hopefully. "Well, so were you, were n't you?" The tone showed quick irritation. "Why, yes, but--" "Well, don't you think it is yours?" "Why, I--I don't know. It might be, of course; but--" "You _said_ you thought it was yours, the very first thing." "Yes, I know; but--well, perhaps it is." "Of course it is," asserted James, as he ran down the steps. And Ethel, looking after him, frowned in vague wonder. Thursday morning's mail brought four letters, and Ethel blushed prettily as she tucked them all in her belt. "But they aren't all yours," protested her brother James. "But they are!" she laughed. "All?" "All." "But _I_ was expecting a letter." "Oh-ho!--so you were, were you?" teased the girl merrily. Ethel could afford to be merry; she had recognized a certain bold handwriting on one of the envelopes. "I really don't see, then, but you 'll have to go to Rover. Perhaps he can tell you where it is."