bread. Gertie had given a grudging consent. Everything had gone well
until the bread, once in the oven, Nora had gone to her room to add some
pages to a long letter which she had begun, some evenings before to
Agnes Pringle.

Gertie had been out in one of the barns most of the morning engaged in
some mysterious task which she had been reserving until the weather
became milder--there had been a decided thaw, setting in the day
before--and Nora intended to be gone only a short time.

Filled with a warm feeling of gratitude to Miss Pringle for her generous
loan of the ten-pound note, she was writing her a long letter in the
form of a diary describing her voyage across the Atlantic and the trip
across the Continent, both of which she was sure would greatly interest
her friend and furnish her with topics for her tête-à-tête dinners with
the excellent Mrs. Hubbard for some days to come.

Of the difficulties and disappointments in her new life she was resolved
to say nothing. Nora hated to confess that she had failed in anything.
And, so far, she could hardly say that she had made a success. Later
on, she might have to acknowledge that her move had been a mistake. But
for the moment she would confine herself to describing all that struck
her as novel and strange while the impression was still fresh, while she
still had the 'seeing eye.'

"When I came to the end of my last page (and I remember that I was
getting extremely sleepy at that point)," she wrote, "I had just
finished describing the exterior of my brother's house to you. I am sure
I can never do justice to the interior! You can never have seen, much
less imagined, anything in the least like it. I have decided, upon