me that I have heard of raking a yard.
I think Dorinda mentioned that, didn't she?"

Lute looked at me: then he hurried over and picked up the rake which
was lying near the barn, a pile--a very small pile--of chips and leaves
beside it.

"When did she mention it?" he asked.

"A week ago, I think, was the first time. She has referred to it
occasionally since. She was mentioning it to you when I went up town
this morning. I heard her."

Lute looked relieved. "Oh, THEN!" he said. "I thought you meant lately.
Well, I'm rakin' it, ain't I? Say, Ros," he added, eagerly, "did you
go to the post-office when you was uptown? Was there a letter there for
you?"

"What makes you think there was?"

"Asa Peters' boy, the bow-legged one, told me. The chauffeur, the feller
that pilots the automobiles, asked him where the post-office was and he
see the address on the envelope. He said the letter was for you. I told
him he was lyin'--"

"What in the world did you tell him that for?" I interrupted. I had
known Lute a long time, but he sometimes surprised me, even yet.

"'Cause he is, nine times out of ten," replied Lute, promptly. "You
never see such a young-one for dodgin' the truth. Why, one time he told
his grandmother, Asa's ma, I mean, that--"

"What did he say about the letter?"

"Said 'twas for you. And the chauffeur said Mr. Colton told him to mail
it right off. 'Twan't for you, was it, Ros?"

"Yes."

"It WAS! Well, by time! What did a man like Mr. Colton write to you
about?"

Among his other lackings Lute was conspicuously short of tact. This was
no time for him to ask me such a question, especially to emphasize the
"you."

"Why shouldn't he write to me?" I asked, tartly.

"But--but HIM--writin' to YOU!"

"Humph! Even a god stoops once in a while. Read your mythology, Lute."

"Hey? Say, look here, what are you swearin' about?"

"Swearing? Oh, that's all right. The god I referred to was a heathen
one."

"Well, it's a good thing Dorindy didn't hear you; she's down on
swearin', heathen or any other kind. But what did Mr. Colton write to
you for?"

"He says he wants to see me."

"See you? What for?"

"Don't know. Perhaps he wants to borrow money."

"Borrow--! I believe you're crazy!"

"No, I'm tolerably sane. There! there! don't look at me like that.
Here's his letter. Read it, if you want to."

Lute's fingers were so eager to grasp that letter that they were all
thumbs. He dropped it on the grass,