“No; it wa’n’t right fer you to be careless an’ lose the letter, Cap’n,” he said decidedly. “But the Lord—wall, you see, the Lord is consid’able smarter’n what we be, an’ He c’n fix things up that go wrong. Kind o’ arranges it so’t the universe won’t fly the track, no matter what we do. We ain’t p’mitted t’ disturb the gen’ral peace t’ any great extent. You’ll understan’ these things better when you’re growed up, Cap’n.” “Will I?” said Jimmy hopefully. Peg thrust his spade into the ground. “Guess I’d better walk over t’ the house with you, an’ see if the’s anythin’ I c’n do,” he said briefly. Barbara was setting the table with quick darting movements of her lithe figure when the two came in range of the kitchen door. She paused abruptly at sight of them. “You must come in and eat your dinner quick, Jimmy,” she called, “or you’ll be late to school.” “You g’wan in, Cap’n,” Peg urged in a diplomatic whisper. “I guess she’s pretty nigh all right. But I wouldn’t pester her none ’bout that letter ef I was you. Mebbe she’d ruther not talk ’bout it yet.” The child stole into the kitchen with hanging head and sat down at the table spread for two. He was very much ashamed of himself in the stormy light of Barbara’s gray eyes; but Mr. Morrison’s remarks concerning the Maker of the universe appeared worthy of passing on. He fortified himself with a large slice of brown bread and butter, thickly overlaid with apple-sauce. “It couldn’t have been _very_ ’portant, Barb’ra,” he said blandly. The girl faced about in the act of taking two boiled potatoes out of a saucepan. “But it was, Jimmy. I know that much, and I can’t read it.” “Peg says there’s Somebody a-lookin’ out for things, an’ He made that letter fall out o’ my pocket.” “Peg,” interrupted Barbara wrathfully, “knows nothing about it.” “‘N’ He let it rain, too,” pursued Jimmy determinedly. “‘N’ He let the ink run, ’n’ the mud get on it. Do you want me to tell you who it was? Do you, Barb’ra?” “Well, who do you suppose it was?” “God!” exploded the child dramatically. “Peg said——” “I don’t want to hear what Peg said. He doesn’t know.” “I shall put it,” said the child, “in red ink, in my Vallable Inf’mation book. It’s a vallable inf’mation.” “It would be, if it was true.” “An’ if it isn’t true, it’s a vallable inf’mation. I’ll put it down that way.” “I would,” advised Barbara gloomily. Then she repented herself and stooped to kiss the child’s quivering lips. “Anyway,” she said, “I love you; and you didn’t mean to lose the letter.” After Jimmy’s inquisitive blue eyes were tight shut that night, Barbara examined the blurred sheet once more, holding it between her eyes and the bright light of the lamp. A word here and there appeared to emerge from the chaos, where the sharp penpoint had bitten the paper. “... never forgotten,” was tolerably distinct. Then followed a hopeless blur of brown earth stains and purple ink. But further down the page she read, “Write—if you——”