THE LETTER.


Katie Clifford sat on the floor, in the sun, feeding her white mice. She
had a tea-spoon and a cup of bread and milk in her hands. If she had
been their own mother she could not have smiled down on the little
creatures more sweetly.

"'Cause I spect they's hungry, and that's why I'm goin' to give 'em
sumpin' to eat. Shut your moufs and open your eyes," said she, waving
the tea-spoon, and spattering the bread and milk over their backs.

"Quee, quee," squeaked the little mice, very well pleased when a drop
happened to go into their mouths.

"What are you doing there, Miss Topknot," said Horace: "O, I see;
catching rats."

Flyaway frowned fearfully, and the tuft of hair atop of her head danced
like a war-plume.

"I shouldn't think folks would call 'em names, Hollis, when they never
did a thing to you. Nothing but clean white mouses!"

"Let's see; now I look at 'em, Topknot, they _are_ white. And what's all
this paper?"

"Bed-kilts."

"_In_-deed?"