forget Sam comfortably and find him right there when I need him.

I am glad that I had that care-free day of hard work with Sam out at The
Briers to fatigue me so that I couldn't take Peter's letter completely
to heart. I read it, cried over it a minute, and then fell into my bed
without even putting rose oil on my cheek curls to hold them in place.
My first day at farming had done me up. Still, it's no use to cover up
your head from trouble; it's right here by the bed the minute you peep
over the top of the sheet. I woke up, feeling that the whole world must
be camping on the top of my crocheted lace counterpane; but soon I
realized that it was only Peter's play. Peter is stuck in the mud at the
beginning of the third act, and he thinks it is quicksands that are
going to drown him. The last few sentences of the letter sound like a
beautiful funeral oration to himself, and they made me so miserable that
I put on my clothes and fled to daddy, who was out smoking his cigar on
the front porch in the crisp morning air.

"And Sam can't possibly get ready for him to come down in less than two
weeks. He has to build the house in between the plowing and milking and
other things. Peter may die. What shall we do?" I wound up with a wail.

"Sam paid off the note on two of the cows and cash for the mule last
Monday," answered daddy. "Not a farmer in the Harpeth Valley has done
better in less than two years, and I would leave Peter to him. I guess
he can fodder up the play, too. Have the poet down to visit mother while
he waits."

"He can't come for a week; he's going to be decorated at the Academy.
He's the youngest that ever has been; but I'll write and ask him," I
answered, in a jumble, but very much comforted.