Are you really feeling lonely, you popular young man of many engagements?  Lonely and dissatisfied are your words.  But why?  Why?  Surely no one ever had less reason to feel dissatisfied.  There are very many people, my friend, who wouldn’t mind being you.  And yet you aren’t thankful!  Not thankful for the interesting life you have, the plays you see, the dinners you eat, the charming women you talk to, the balls you dance at, the clubs you frequent—­though what a man does at his clubs beyond escaping for a brief season from his womenkind I never quite know.  Think how nice to be a man and not have to look pleased when one is really bored to extinction!  If you are bored you have only to slip away to your most comfortable rooms.  Did I tell you how much I liked your rooms that day Margie and I went to tea with you? or were we too busy talking about other things?  Now don’t be like Peter.  He was grumbling about something and I told him to go away and count his blessings.  He went obediently, and returned triumphant.  “I’ve done it!” he said, “and I’ve six things to be thankful for and nine to be unthankful for—­”

One thing for which I think you might feel “unthankful” is your lamentable lack of near relations.  It is hard to be quite alone in the world; for, I agree, aunts don’t count for much.  Weighed in the balance they are generally found woefully wanting.

I remember once, when we were laughing over some escapade of our childhood you said you had no very pleasant recollection of your childish days, that you didn’t look forward to holidays and that your happiest time was at school, because then you had companions.

I feel quite sad when I think what you missed.  We were very lucky, four of us growing up together, and I sometimes wonder if other children had the same full, splendid time we had, and if they employed it getting into as many scrapes.  The village people, shaking their heads over us and our probable end, used to say, “They’re a’ bad, but the lassie (meaning me) is the verra deil.”  We were bad, but we were also extraordinarily happy.  I treasure up all sorts of memories, some of them very trivial and absurd, store them away in lavender, and when I feel dreary I take them out and refresh myself with them.  One episode I specially remember, though why I should tell you about it I don’t quite know, for it is a small thing and “silly sooth.”  We were staying at the time with our grandmother, the grandmother I am called for, a very stern and stately lady—­the only person I have ever really stood in awe of.  We had been wandering all day, led by John, searching for hidden treasure at the rainbow’s foot, climbing high hills to see if the world came to an end at the other side, or some equally fantastic quest.  It was dark and almost supper-time and we had committed the heinous crime of not appearing for tea, so, when we were told to go at once to see our grandmother, and stumbled just as we were, tired and dusty, hair on