Then there's the man that paints pictures. He's tall and slim, and
wears queer ties and long hair. He's always standing back and looking
at things with his head on one side, and exclaiming "Oh!" and "Ah!"
with a long breath. He says Mother's coloring is wonderful. I heard
him. And I didn't like it very well, either. Why, it sounded as if
she put it on herself out of a box on her bureau, same as some other
ladies do! Still, he's not so bad, maybe; though I'm not sure but what
his paints and pictures would be just as tiresome to live with as
Father's stars, when it came right down to wanting a husband to live
with you and talk to you every day in the year. You know you have to
think of such things when it comes to choosing a new father--I mean
a new husband. (I keep forgetting that it's Mother and not me that's
doing the choosing.)

Well, to resume and go on. There's the violinist. I mustn't forget
him. But, then, nobody could forget him. He's lovely: so handsome and
distinguished-looking with his perfectly beautiful dark eyes and white
teeth. And he plays--well, I'm simply crazy over his playing. I only
wish Carrie Heywood could hear him. She thinks her brother can play.
He's a traveling violinist with a show; and he came home once to
Andersonville. And I heard him. But he's not the real thing at all.
Not a bit. Why, he might be anybody, our grocer, or the butcher, up
there playing that violin. His eyes are little and blue, and his hair
is red and very short. I wish she could hear _our_ violinist play!

And there's another man that comes to the parties and teas;--oh, of
course there are others, lots of them, married men with wives, and
unmarried men with and without sisters. But I mean another man
specially. His name is Harlow. He's a little man with a brown pointed
beard and big soft brown eyes. He's really awfully good-looking, too.