I was indignant. I demanded the handglass, gave one look at myself,
and I was inclined to let it slide off the bed to the floor, à la Camille,
only Amélie would not have seen the joke. I did look old and seedy.
But what of that? Of course Amélie does not know yet that I am like
the "Deacon's One Hoss Shay"--I may look dilapidated, but so long
as I do not absolutely drop apart, I can go.

So I told Amélie that if I were the mistress, I had a right to be obeyed,
and that there were times when there was no question of mistress
and maid, that this was one of those times, that she had been a
trump and a brick, and other nice things, and that the one thing I
needed was to work with my own hands. She finally yielded, but not
to my arguments--to Nature.

Perhaps owing to the excitement of three weeks, perhaps to the fact
that she had worked too hard in the sun, and also, it may be, owing to
the long run she took, of which I wrote you in my letter of last week, it
is the worst attack I ever saw. I can tell you I wished for a doctor, and
she is even now only a little better.

However, I have had what we used to call "a real nice time playing
house." Having nothing else to do, I really enjoyed it. I have swept
and dusted, and handled all my little treasures, touching everything
with a queer sensation--it had all become so very precious. All the
time my thoughts flew back to the past. That is the prettiest thing
about housework--one can think of such nice things when one is
working with one's hands, and is alone. I don't wonder Burns wrote
verses as he followed the plough--if he really did.

I think I forgot to tell you in my letter of last week that the people--