She turned away.

"Here it is," I said, and held it up.

She looked at it a long time, and her brows arched.

"Did the pigs get it?"

"The wrens. It was merely a change of post-office."

"I'd as well write the next one to them," she said, "since they get the
letters."

Georgiana was well aware that she slipped the note into the nest when
they were looking and I was not; but women--_all_ women--now and then
hold a man responsible for what they have done themselves. Sylvia, for
instance. She grew peevish with me the other day because my garden
failed to furnish the particular flowers that would have assuaged her
whim. And yet for days Sylvia has been helping herself with such lack
of stint that the poor clipped and mangled bushes look at me as I pass
sympathetically by them, and say, "If you don't keep her away, we'd as
well be weeds!"

The truth is that Sylvia's rampant session in school, involving the
passage of the Greatest Common Divisor--far more dreadful than the
passage of the Beresina--her blue rosettes at the recent Commencement,
and the prospect of a long vacation, together with further miscellany
appertaining to her age and sex, have strung the chords of her
sentimental being up to the highest pitch. Feeling herself to be
naturally a good instrument and now perfectly in tune, Sylvia requires