written her conniving letters of instruction, unknown to her father, explaining how to make out checks, and properly balance amounts. Reba had not confided her marriage to Mr. Perkins, but she had presumed upon his partisanship to the extent of intrusting him with a blushing confession of the existence of a correspondent whom she didn't wish her family to know about. And he had winked an understanding eye at her, and assured her three times over that she could trust him not to let the cat out of the bag.
The three postcards from Nathan addressed to Mr. James Perkins had been unsigned and non-committal. The first, a picture of the Singer tower, mailed in New York, had remarked briefly, "This is a fine city." The second, from Savannah, "Stopping here for an extra cargo." And the third, which depicted an alligator, a bunch of bananas, and a small negro boy in rags, had been as impersonal as its predecessors. "This is what grows down here," it had said.
It had not been until Reba had received the sailor's first letter that she realized how vital their marriage was to him. And that, unfortunately, was not until after it had lost its particular significance for her. Nathaniel Cawthorne's first letter to his bride filled her with fears that required all the new courage that she possessed, to stifle, crush down deep in her heart, and calmly continue on her way.
This letter had not reached her until she had been installed for over a month at the Alliance. Mr. Perkins had forwarded it to her from Ridgefield, inclosing it first in one of the bank's official envelopes. It had required four cents in postage, for Nathan had buried his letter to Reba inside three envelopes. The
