“I know it isn’t—­you blessed child!  I’ll tell you—­some day—­perhaps....  Pull the rope and set me swinging, please....  Isn’t this sky delicious—­glimpsed through the green leaves?  Fancy you’re not knowing the happiness of the country!  I’ve always known it.  Perhaps the trouble was I had too much of it.  My town was an ancient, respectable, revolutionary relic set in a very beautiful rolling country near the sea; but I suppose I caught the infection—­the country rolled, the breakers rolled, and finally I rolled out of it all—­over and over plump into Gotham!  And I didn’t land on my feet, either....  You are correct, Valerie; there is something humorous about this world....  There’s one of the jokes, now!” as a native passed, hunched up on the dashboard, driving a horse and a heifer in double harness.

“Shall we go to the post office with him?” cried Valerie, jumping to her feet.

[Illustration:  “Valerie sat cross-legged on the grass ... scribbling away.”]

“Now, dear, what is the use of our going to the post office when nobody knows our address and we never could possibly expect a letter!”

“That is true,” said Valerie, pensively.  “Rita, I’m beginning to think I’d like to have a letter.  I believe—­believe that I’ll write to—­to somebody.”

“That is more than I’ll do,” yawned Rita, closing her eyes.  She opened them presently and said: 

“I’ve a nice little writing case in my trunk.  Sam presented it.  Bring it out here if you’re going to write.”

The next time she unclosed her eyes Valerie sat cross-legged on the grass by the hammock, the writing case on her lap, scribbling away as though she really enjoyed it.

The letter was to Neville.  It ran on: 

“Rita is asleep in a hammock; she’s too pretty for words.  I love her.  Why?  Because she loves me, silly!

“I’m a very responsive individual, Kelly, and a pat on the head elicits purrs.

“I want you to write to me.  Also, pray be flattered; you are the only person on earth who now has my address.  I may send it to Jose Querida; but that is none of your business.  When I saw the new moon on the stump-pond last night I certainly did wish for Querida and a canoe.  He can sing very charmingly.

“Now I suppose you want to know under what circumstances I have permitted myself to wish for you.  If you talk to a man about another man he always attempts to divert the conversation to himself.  Yes, he does.  And you are no better than other men, Louis—­not exempt from their vanities and cunning little weaknesses.  Are you?

“Well, then, as you admit that you are thoroughly masculine, I’ll admit that deep in a corner of my heart I’ve wished for you a hundred times.  The moon suggests Querida; but about everything suggests you.  Now are you flattered?

“Anyway, I do want you.  I like you, Louis!  I like you, Mr. Neville!  And oh, Kelly, I worship you, without sentiment or any nonsense in reserve.  You are life, you are happiness, you are gaiety, you are inspiration, you are contentment.