the book."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," said Patty, generously, "she's glad to come,
and so I'm glad to have her. Let's telegraph at once,--shall us?"

"Yes; but I don't like that haste of hers. It strikes me queer."

"Queer, how? She's impatient to start,--that's all. What else could it
mean?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But the whole letter's queer,--if you ask me!"

"I _do_ ask you,--and I ask you _how_ it's queer."

"It's so,--so jumbly,--incoherent,--choppy."

"Pooh! don't criticise the lack of style in that poor country child. I'll
teach her to write letters,--and I won't let her know I'm teaching her,
either."

"You'll teach her lots of things,--I know,--and in that dear, gentle way
of yours, that couldn't hurt or offend anybody. Well, I'll telegraph,
then, for her to come ahead. What else shall I say?"

"Tell her what road to take, and all directions you can think of. Though
it sounds to me, as if she thought she would have no difficulty as to
travel."

"Sounds that way to me, too; but I suppose her father can look after such
details. Queer message from her father."