As they entered the post-office, Frank stepped up to the “pigeon-hole,” and the postmaster handed him two letters; one was addressed to his mother, and the other bore his own name, written in a full, round, school-boy’s hand.

“Ben,” he exclaimed, as he broke the seal, “I’ve got a letter from Archie.  I wrote to him a month ago; I should think it was about time to get an answer.”

“See if he says any thing about getting a letter from me,” said Ben.  “I haven’t heard from him in a long time.”

Before proceeding further, it may not be improper to say a word about Archie Winters.  He was, as we have already said, Frank’s cousin, and lived in the city of Portland.  He was just Frank’s age, and, like him, was kind and generous; but he was not the boy for books.  When in school, he was an obedient and industrious pupil, and learned very readily; but, when four o’clock came, he was the first to lay aside his books.  He was very fond of rural sports, and, for a city boy, was a very expert hunter; he even considered himself able to compete with Frank.  He was also passionately fond of pets, and, if he could have had his own way, he would have possessed every cat and dog in the city.  His father was a wealthy ship-builder, and Archie was an only child.  But he was not, as is generally the case, spoiled by indulgence; on the contrary, his parents always required his prompt and cheerful obedience, and, when out of their sight, Archie was very careful to do nothing of which he thought his parents would not approve.  Every vacation he paid a visit to his cousin, and sometimes staid until late in the winter, to engage in his favorite sport.  He was well known to the village boys, among whom his easy and obliging manners had won many a steadfast friend.

But let us now return to the letter, which ran as follows: 

     PORTLAND, June 28, 18—.

DEAR COUSIN:  Your letter of the 16th of last month was duly received, and, I suppose, you think it is about time for me to answer it.  They say that a person who is good at making excuses is good for nothing else; but, I suppose, you will expect some apology for my seeming neglect.  You perhaps remember hearing your mother speak of James Sherman, a cousin whom we had never seen.  About two weeks since, father received a letter from his mother, stating that she and James would be at our house in about three days.  Well, they came agreeably to notice, and I have had the pleasure of entertaining our cousin ever since.  I have had to pilot him around, and show him all the sights, and I have had time for nothing else.

I will not tell you what sort of a fellow he is; I will leave you to judge of his general character, etc.  He and his mother are now on their way to Lawrence, and they expect to be at your house about the 6th (July).  They intend to remain about two weeks.  When I saw them getting into the train, and knew that