I've got married, and here's the baby. Oh, _no_! he'll never guess who
it is in the world. Photographs really amount to nothing in such a case.
I wish we were at home, and it was all over. I wish he had written some
particulars, instead of telegraphing from Ogden, "Be with you on the 7
A.M., Wednesday."

AUNT MARY. Californians always telegraph, my dear; they never think of
writing. It isn't expensive enough, and it doesn't make your blood run
cold enough to get a letter, and so they send you one of those miserable
yellow despatches whenever they can--those printed in a long string, if
possible, so that you'll be _sure_ to die before you get to the end of
it. I suppose your brother has fallen into all those ways, and says
"reckon" and "ornary" and "which the same," just like one of Mr. Bret
Harte's characters.

MRS. ROBERTS. But it isn't exactly our not knowing each other, aunty,
that's worrying me; that's something that could be got over in time. What
is simply driving me distracted is Willis and Edward meeting there when
I'm away from home. Oh, how _could_ I be away! and why _couldn't_ Willis
have given us fair warning? I would have hurried from the ends of the
earth to meet him. I don't believe poor Edward ever saw a Californian;
and he's so quiet and preoccupied, I'm sure he'd never get on with
Willis. And if Willis is the least loud, he wouldn't like Edward. Not
that I suppose he _is_ loud; but I don't believe he knows anything about
literary men. But you can see, aunty, can't you, how very anxious I must
be? Don't you see that I ought to have been there when Willis and Edward
met, so as to--to--well, to _break_ them to each other, don't you know?

AUNT MARY. Oh, you needn't be troubled about that, Agnes. I dare say
they've got on perfectly well together. Very likely they're sitting down