village knew that Lucyet Stevens wrote poetry.

"Most time for the mail to be gittin' heavy," said Truman, as he handed
over the limp receptacle; "the summer boarders'll be along now, before
long."

"Yes, I s'pose they will," answered Lucyet, her fingers trembling as
they unlocked the bag.

"It's a backward season, though," he went on, watching her.

"Yes, it is uncommon backward; the apple blossoms aren't but just
beginning to come out."

It seemed to her that there was suspicion in his observation. He leaned
lazily over the counter, while she took out the mail within the little
office with its front of letter-boxes.

"This hot spell'll bring 'em out. It's the first _hot_ spell we've
had."

"Yes," she assented, blushing again, "it will."

She had spoken of the tardy apple blossoms in her poem,--it was entitled
"Spring." Two or three people, having seen the mail go by, dropped in
and disposed themselves in various attitudes to wait for it to be
distributed. She hurried through the work, her fingers tingling to open
each copy of the newspaper as she laid it in its place. At last it was
done; the little window which had been shut to produce official
seclusion was reopened; and the people came up, one by one, without much
haste, and received the papers and now and then a letter. It did not
take long; and afterward they stood about and talked and traded a
little, their papers unopened in their hands. It was not likely that the
news from outside was going to affect any one of them very much; they
could wait for it; and reading matter was for careful attention at home,
not for skimming over in public places.

Lucyet found their indifference phenomenal; they did not know what might
be waiting for them in the first column of the third page. Was it
waiting for them? The suspense was almost overwhelming; and yet she did
not like to open the copy which lay at her disposal until the store was
empty; she had a nervous feeling that they would all know what she was
looking for. Slowly the group melted away, till there was no one left
except the proprietor, who had gone into the back room to look after
some seed corn, and Silas, the young farmer, who had thrown himself down
into a chair to read his paper at his leisure, and was not noticing
Lucyet. Eagerly she opened the printed sheet. She caught her breath in
the joy of assurance. There it was--"Spring." It stood out as if it were
printed all in capitals. After a furtive l