The Brigand seemed to write a bold, black hand, and his note-paper and
envelope was just like anybody else's. But perhaps his band had
surprised a pedlar with a box of stationery.

"Let me see," said Imogen, running her eye down the page. "'Adored
Imogen'--that wouldn't interest you--hm, hm, hm--ah, here's something!
'I took dinner at the Rock House on Christmas. It was lonesome without
you. I had roast turkey, roast goose, roast beef, mince pie, plum
pudding, and nuts and raisins. A pretty good dinner, was it not? But
nothing tastes first-rate when friends are away'"

Katy and Clover stared, as well they might. Such language from a
Brigand!

"John Billings has bought a new horse," continued Imogen; "hm, hm,
hm--him. I don't think there is anything else you'd care about. Oh, yes!
just here, at the end, is some poetry:

"'Come, little dove, with azure wing, And brood upon my breast,'

"That's sweet, ain't it?"

"Hasn't he reformed?" said Clover; "he writes as if he had."

"Reformed!" cried Imogen, with a toss of the jingling ear-rings. "He was
always just as good as he could be!"

There was nothing to be said in reply to this. Katy felt her lips
twitch, and for fear she should be rude, and laugh out, she began to