I have in my lap a number of letters received in this evening's mail.
One is from my dear friend, Mrs. Knox, the charming contralto of Christ
Church. We had expected her to visit us this week, but her unexpected
departure for the West has prevented her from doing so. She says:

"You must truly be enjoying Chappaqua these heavenly June days. I hope
that the fresh air and rest are putting roses into your pale cheeks and
giving you health and strength for your literary labors. My sudden
departure compels me to forego the pleasure I had anticipated in seeing
you at Chappaqua--at least until the fall. I am appreciative of the
courtesy of your dear mamma in inviting me to spend a day in that
lovely retreat, already made sacred to me by my high regard and
admiration for your most noble uncle, whose home it was."

Another letter is written upon most dainty stationery, bearing the
impress of Tiffany, and adorned with a prettily devised monogram in
lavender and gold (handsome stationery is one of my weaknesses). This
letter I know to be sprightly and amusing before I open it, for my
friend Lela has been for two or three years one of my most entertaining
correspondents. We were intimate friends in Paris three or four years
ago, when Lela was a school-girl, and I an _enfant de Marie_, and
although we have been separated by hundreds of miles, by the ocean, and
finally, by Lela's marriage, our attachment continues; so, no
reproaches upon school-girl friendships, I beg.

Lela was married last winter, but she and her handsome French husband
are yet in the honeymoon, which will last, I fancy, forever--certainly
the former Queen of Hearts seems now to care for only _one_ heart. She
says: