don’t talk as if money was sweet peas an’ would dry up if it wasn’t
picked!"

Lucinda screwed up her face.

Aunt Mary gave her one awful look.

"You get me some paper an’ my desk, Lucinda," she said. "I think it’s
about time I was takin’ a hand in it myself. I’ve been pretty patient, an’
I don’t see as it’s helped matters any. Now I’m goin’ to write that boy a
letter that’ll settle him an’ his cats, an’ his cooks, an’ his cabmen, an’
his Kalamazoo, just once for all. I guess I can do what I set out to do.
Pretty generally—most always."

Lucinda brought the desk, and Aunt Mary frowned fearfully and began to
write the letter.

It developed very strongly. As her pen sized up the situation in black and
white, the old lady seemed to realize the iniquities of the case more and
more plainly; and as the letter grew her wrath grew also. The whole came,
in the end, to a threat—made in good earnest—to take a very serious step
indeed if any more "foolishness" developed.

Aunt Mary prided herself on her granite-like will. She had full faith in
her ability to slay her nearest and dearest if it seemed right and best to
do so.

She sealed her letter tight, stuck the stamp on square and hard, and bid
Lucinda convey it to Joshua and tell him never to quit it until he saw it
safe on to the evening train.