went into the library, turned over papers and magazines on desk and
tables, then rang for Hedwig.

"The mail?" she said. "Where did you put the letters this morning?"

Hedwig shook her head. "There no letters were this morning, mein
Fraulein. Not one at all."

"That's queer! All right." Hedwig was waved away. "I wonder if anything
is the matter? Of course there isn't--only--there haven't been three
Mondays since I left here that John's letter didn't come on the early
mail." She straightened a rose that was falling out of a jar and stood
off to watch the effect. "Nobody but John would write every week, when
I don't write once in four--don't even read his letters for days after
they come, sometimes. But I like to know they're here. I believe"--she
clasped her hands behind her head--"I believe I wish I had let him come
down to-night. No, I don't. But why didn't he write? He ought to have
known--" She turned away. "It would serve me right if he never wrote
again."

By seven o'clock she was on her way to the monthly meeting of the
town council, which meeting was always held on the second Monday
evening in the month, and as she started off she waved to Hedwig,
standing in the door.

"Telephone Miss Gibbie not to sit up for me," she called back. "I'm
going to stay all night with her, but it may be late before I get there.
Don't forget!" And again the hand was waved; and as she drove down
the dusty road, Ephraim beside her, the uncertainty of the morning
faded and her spirits rose at the prospect of the experience awaiting.