As the haying season came on Gabe became possessed of an unusual fit of application. He had worked steadily for three days when something happened. Driving up with a load of hay piled rather higher than the old mare liked, she rebelled, and while she and he were having it out together the load was overturned. Liz and Bet, walking some distance behind, rushed forward, and Liz stooped to pick up her father’s coat, which, lying on top of the load, had been thrown to one side. As she did so she discovered a letter that had dropped out, and at the same moment his eye fell upon it. “You Liz,” he cried, his voice trembling with excitement; “you leave my love letter alone!” The seal was unbroken and Liz turned it over in her hand. “Gabe Freeler,” she read slowly, “frum Luce Bozeman.” “You give it here,” he reiterated. “Er—mebbe,” sheepishly, “yer mout make out ter read it. I ain’t rightly guessed what it mout be.” The girl regarded him uncertainly as she hesitated to break the seal. “Read it, ef yer kin,” he said irritably, standing beside the mare now disentangled from the broken harness and shafts, and mopping the perspiration from his brow. “Ef ever I’d er be’n ter school three months I ’low I could read any writin’ thet ever wuz writ.” “’Tain’t no three months!” replied the girl with asperity. “’Twasn’t but only two months and three weeks; but I reck’n I kin read anything Luce Bozeman kin write!” “You gimme that letter!” he flared. “I guess yer won’t git no chanct ter read it!” As he advanced to take it from her hand the attention of the three was arrested by the approach of a shock-headed youth riding rapidly around the bend in the thickly-shaded road. He wore no hat and appeared to be in excited haste. Without salutation or unnecessary parley, he delivered his message: “She says, air yer er comin’? Yes or no!” Freeler stared at him blankly. “Wall, I know who ye air, an’ I know whar yer come frum,” he said slowly, “but I’ll be durned ef I know what ye air er drivin’ at.” “Luce,” said the boy, “she writ yer a letter and sont it by Dick Weems las’ Sadday.” Liz and Bet regarded their father silently. His face was a curious mixture of chagrin, earnestness and baffled determination. He had said Liz should not read the letter; yet he must know the contents now; and how to do it without disclosing to the boy his ignorance of learning? “I ain’t but jes’ got the letter a little bit ago,” he said, lying lamely as Liz’s eyes were upon him. “Liz, thar, wuz jes’ about ter read it when we seen yer er comin’—I ain’t seein’ very well sence that spell I had o’ the yaller janders.” He brushed an awkward hand across his eyes. “Read it, Liz—ef yer kin!” But this time the girl did not retort; her curiosity invited nothing that would delay its satisfying.