CHAPTER XXXI
SIX days after Aunt Augusta had dropped Reba's note into the mail-box at the foot of Chestnut Street, a clerk placed it among the C's in the general delivery compartment in the San Francisco post-office. On the same night, in the same city, not many blocks away, in an upper bedroom, where such luxuries pervaded as carefully turned-back bedclothes, the glow of a prettily shaded drop-light, and a Bokhara rug, there lay upon the table beneath the light, three envelopes, directed to Mr. James Perkins, Ridgefield, Mass. There lay also upon the table, two forearms, elbows outstretched, supporting the body of a young man, who sat leaning forward over the table, intent upon some writing.
He was a big-framed young fellow, with sandy, close-cropped hair. His bulk was what impressed one at first glance; but when he looked up an instant in search of a word or phrase, the intelligence on his face, the dreamy look in his eyes, gave one an unexpected surprise; made one wonder if the slight stoop of the broad shoulders was not due to too much leaning over books. He had the prominent brows and goodly brain space above the eyes that indicated a scholar. The choice of books in the rack stretching across the end of the table indicated a scholar too, or a scholar in the making, at any rate.
The young man was not at present, however, occupied with any of the books. He was writing on
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