blotter.
To her dismay half of the envelope stuck to the blotting-paper, leaving
the contents of the letter open to her view.

On the half-envelope lay an object apparently so peculiarly terrifying
that the little postmistress caught her breath and turned quite white at
sight of it. And yet it was only a square bit of paper, perfectly blank
save for half a dozen thread-like lines scattered through its texture.

For a long while the postmistress stood staring at the half-envelope and
the bit of blank paper. Then with trembling fingers she lighted a lamp
and held the little piece of paper over the chimney--carefully. When the
paper was warm she raised it up to the light and read the scrawl that
the sympathetic ink revealed:

"I send you a sample of the latest style fibre. Look out for the
new postmaster at Nauvoo. He's a secret-service spy, and he's
been sent to see what you are doing. This is the last letter I
dare send you by mail."

There was no signature to the message, but a signature was not necessary
to tell the postmistress who had written the letter. With set lips and
tearless eyes she watched the writing fade slowly on the paper; and when
again the paper was blank she sank down by the window, laying her head
in her arms.

A few moments later Helm came in wrapped in a shining wet mackintosh. He
glanced at his box, saw it was empty, wheeled squarely on his heels, and
walked out.

Towards sunset the rain dissolved to mist; a trail of vapor which marked
the course of an unseen brook floated high among the hemlocks. There was
no wind; the feathery tips of the pines, powdered with rain-spray, rose
motionless in the still air. Suddenly the sun's red search-light played
through the forest; long, warm rays fell across wet moss, rain-drenched
ferns dripped, the swamp steamed. In the east the thunder still boomed,
and faint lightning flashed under the smother of sombre clouds; but the
storm had rolled off among the mountains, and already a white-throated
sparrow was calling from the edge of the clearing. It promised to be a
calm evening in Nauvoo.

Meanwhile, Helm walked on down the muddy road, avoiding the puddles
which the sun turned into pools of liquid flame. He heard the catbirds
mewing in the alders; he heard the evening carol of the robin--that
sweet, sleepy, thrushlike warble which always promises a melody that
never follows; he picked a spray of rain-drenched hemlock as he passed,
crushing