“But I’m not ill, Grandma,” said Marjorie; “just having a sprained ankle doesn’t make me a really, truly invalid.”

“No, but you must rest, or you will get ill.  Fever may set in, and if you get over-excited with your play, and have no exercise, you may be in bed longer than you think for.  Besides, I think I remember having heard something about implicit obedience, and so I expect it now as well as when you’re up on your two feet.”

“I don’t think I can help obeying,” said Marjorie, roguishly, “for I can’t very well do anything else.  But I suppose you mean obey without fretting; so I will, for you are a dear, good Grandma and awfully kind to me.”

With a parting pat on her shoulder, Grandma left the little girl for her afternoon nap, and Marjorie would have been surprised at herself had she known how quickly she fell asleep.

Uncle Steve made it a habit to entertain her during the later hours of each afternoon, and, although they were already great chums, his gayety and kindness made Marjorie more than ever devoted to her uncle.

This afternoon he came in with a handful of letters.

“These are all for you,” he said; “it is astonishing what a large correspondence you have.”

Marjorie was amazed.  She took the budget of letters her uncle handed her and counted five.  They were all duly stamped, and all were postmarked, but the postmarks all read Haslemere.

“How funny!” exclaimed Marjorie; “I didn’t know there was a post office at Haslemere.”

“You didn’t!” exclaimed Uncle Steve; “why, there certainly is.  Do you mean to say that you don’t know that there’s a little post office in the lowest branch of that old maple-tree down by the brook?”

“You mean just where the path turns to go to the garden?”

“That’s the very spot.  Only this morning I was walking by there, and I saw a small post office in the tree.  There was a key in the door of it, and being curious, I opened it, and looked in.  There I saw five letters for you, and as you’re not walking much this summer, I thought I’d bring them to you.  I brought the key, too.”

As he finished speaking, Uncle Steve drew from his pocket a little bright key hung on a blue ribbon, which he gravely presented to Marjorie.  Her eyes danced as she took it, for she now believed there was really a post office there, though it was sometimes difficult to distinguish Uncle Steve’s nonsense from the truth.

“Now I’m more than ever anxious to get well,” she cried, “and go out to see that post office.”

“Oh, no,” said Uncle Steve, shaking his head; “you don’t care about post offices and walks in the woods, and drives through the country.  You’d rather slide down an old barn roof, and then lie in bed for a week.”

“Catch me doing it again,” said Marjorie, shaking her head decidedly; “and now, Uncle, suppose we open these letters.”

“Why, that wouldn’t be a bad idea.  Here’s a paper-cutter.  Let’s open one at a time, they’ll last longer.  Suppose you read this one first.”