removed the hot cotton from their little nest, and filled it with fresh
clover-leaves, which I am sure they much prefer. They run no risk of
being devoured here, for Aunt Mary always disliked cats, so that there
is not one upon the place, and Gabrielle's pet dog, a native of
Bordeaux, has viewed them from afar, and snuffed at the cage, but is
evidently too well-bred a Frenchman to desire even to tease them.


_June 14_.

A letter to-day from one of my Paris friends, Jennie Ford. She says:

"How divine it must be at Chappaqua! I am glad you are enjoying
yourself, and are well. But you do not say a word of your Western
trip. I hope you have not given it up."

Then follows a cordial invitation for me to visit her in her beautiful
home upon Lake Erie, now looking its prettiest in the leafy month of
June. All sorts of pleasant inducements are held out: a croquet-lawn
of velvet softness, long drives, and charming rides in which to display
my stylish new beaver and habit, moonlight excursions upon Lake Erie,
and no lack of handsome cavaliers, including naval officers. However,
despite all these attractions, I do not think I shall care to leave
Chappaqua this summer.

Jennie enclosed a photograph of the lady who reigned as belle of the
American colony in Paris, some four or five years ago--Mrs. Horace
Jenness, then Miss Carrie Deming. Three years of married life have
changed the beautiful Carrie somewhat, if this picture is a truthful
one. The perfect outline of her face is unaltered, but the haughty