my life, though, like all sweets, that letter had its bitter drop. It ran
as follows:--


My dear daughter, Lucy,

Only a short letter this time. I am pressed for time, as four or five
strangers have just come and asked to stay for the night, and as one of
the girls is away, I have to get them beds. I am writing about Sybylla. I
am truly grieved to hear she is such a source of grief and annoyance to
you. The girl must surely be ill or she would never act as you describe.
She is young yet, and may settle down better by and by. We can only
entrust her to the good God who is ever near. Send her up to me as soon
as you can. I will pay all expenses. The change will do her good, and if
her conduct improves, I will keep her as long as you like. She is young
to mention in regard to marriage, but in another year she will be as old
as I was when I married, and it might be the makings of her if she
married early. At any rate she will be better away from Possum Gully, now
that she is growing into womanhood, or she may be in danger of forming
ties beneath her. She might do something good for herself up here: not
that I would ever be a matchmaker in the least degree, but Gertie will
soon be coming on, and Sybylla, being so very plain, will need all the
time she can get.

Your loving mother,

L. Bossier.


My mother gave me this letter to read, and, when I had finished perusing