"Dear little Flossy," so the letter ran, "I suppose, though you should
live to be a white-haired old lady, sitting with placid face and fluted
cap and spectacles, in your high-backed arm-chair, in the most treasured
corner mayhap of some granddaughter's choicest room, I, writing to you,
would still commence 'Dear little Flossy.' That I have to cover it from
prying eyes by the dignified and respectable 'Mrs. Evan Roberts,' is
almost a matter of amusement to me. I fancy I can see you making a
journey through some of the Chautauqua avenues, picking your way
daintily towards Palestine, bending lovingly over the small white stones
that mark the village of Bethany,--a pink on your cheek, born, as I
thought, of the excitement of being among those tiny photographs of the
wonderful past, but born in part, I now believe, of the fact that Mr.
Evan Roberts joined us in our walk. Oh, little mousie, how quiet you
were!

"Well, many things have since transpired. We are old married women, you,
and Ruth, and Eurie and I. I suppose the contrast in our lives,--the
outward portion of them, I mean,--is still as strongly marked, perhaps
more so, than it was when we were in Chautauqua together. We were girls
then; we are matrons now, and with the taking on of that title, Ruth and
I took special and great responsibilities. To-night it rains. Mr. Dennis
has been called to the upper part of the city,--away out to Springdale,
in fact,--to see a sick and dying man, and I am alone and almost lonely.
If I could summon any one of the three to my aid and comfort I would. I
am almost as lonely as I was on some of those evenings in the old
boarding-house. Still there are differences; the smoky old stove is not;
a summer warmth floats through the house, born of steam; no ill-smelling
kerosene lamp offends your aesthetic friend to-night, but the softest of
shaded drop-lights sheds a halo around me. Isn't that almost poetic?
Moreover, oh blessed thought! I have no examination papers to prepare,