She, too, had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew well how the rosy
blush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she had
hoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; such
a splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die an
old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger.
"Has Bill got in with the mail?" asked Miss Mayfield.
"Yes, miss; here's your paper what Bill brought, and here is a letter
or valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village," said the
little old postmaster, with a merry laugh.
Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly hand
to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman," thought Miss
Henrietta. "He has spoken, or rather written his hopes at last." But,
no, that was not his handwriting.
Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened the envelope,
and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and then at the
signature--Arthur Linton.
"Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name of
the handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking to
me. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my having
a little property, and that's what he's after.
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