he, though?" asked the blacksmith.

"I don't know,--in the war."

"That's 'cute. Well, see here, sis, we'll find that out,--you and me
will." The angry voice of the blacksmith became tender. "You sit down
there and write him a letter. My son, he'll find out if your pa is
alive. As for Ezra, he don't know any more 'n he did when he went away;
but, poor fellow, he's been mostually in the hospertal, instead of
fighting Ribils, so p'r'aps he ain't to blame. You write to yer pa, and
I'll wage you get an answer back, and he'll tell you all about his
permotion quick enough."

Jenny stood looking at the blacksmith for a moment, with mouth and eyes
wide open, so much astonished by the proposition as not to know what
answer should be made to it. She had never written a line in her life,
except in her old copy-book. If her hand could be made to express what
she was thinking of, it would be the greatest work and wonder in the
world. But then, it never could!

That decisive _never_ seemed to settle the point. She turned forthwith
to the blacksmith, smiling very seriously. At the same time she took
three decided steps, which led her into his dingy shop, as awed as
though she were about to have some wonderful exhibition there. But she
must be her own astrologer.

The blacksmith, elated by his own success that morning in the very
difficult business of letter-writing, was mightily pleased to have under
direction this little disciple in the work of love, and forthwith laid
his strong hands on the bench and brought it out into the light, setting
it down with a force that said something for the earnestness of his
purpose in regard to Miss Jenny.

When he wrote his own letter, he did it in retirement and solitude,
having sought out the darkest corner of his shop for the purpose. A
mighty man in the shoeing of horses and the handling of hammers, he
shrank from exposing his incompetence in the management of a miserable
pen, even to the daylight and himself.

His big account-book placed against his forge, with a small sheet of
paper spread thereon, his pen in Jenny's hands, and the inkstand near
by, there was nothing for him to do but to go away and let her do her
work.

"Give him a tall letter!" said he. "And you must be spry about it. He'll
be glad to hear from his little girl, I reckon. See, the stage 'll be
along by four o'clock, and now it's----"--he stepped to the door and
looked out on the tall pine-tree across the road,--that