On a morning, a week after this collapse of festal hopes, Mrs.
Adams and her daughter were concluding a three-days' disturbance,
the "Spring house-cleaning"--postponed until now by Adams's long
illness--and Alice, on her knees before a chest of drawers, in
her mother's room, paused thoughtfully after dusting a packet of
letters wrapped in worn muslin. She called to her mother, who
was scrubbing the floor of the hallway just beyond the open door,

"These old letters you had in the bottom drawer, weren't they
some papa wrote you before you were married?"

Mrs. Adams laughed and said, "Yes. Just put 'em back where they
were--or else up in the attic--anywhere you want to."

"Do you mind if I read one, mama?"

Mrs. Adams laughed again. "Oh, I guess you can if you want to.
I expect they're pretty funny!"

Alice laughed in response, and chose the topmost letter of the
packet. "My dear, beautiful girl," it began; and she stared at
these singular words. They gave her a shock like that caused by
overhearing some bewildering impropriety; and, having read them
over to herself several times, she went on to experience other
shocks.


MY DEAR, BEAUTIFUL GIRL: