“How long has she been here now?”

“Nearly a month.  I’ve tried and Betty has tried,—­and, yes, Azalea has tried herself,—­but we can’t seem to—­”

“Camouflage her!”

“That’s just it!  I want her to look like the background she’s against here,—­and she doesn’t!”

“I should say not!  Last night at dinner she threw herself back in her chair and yawned openly—­”

“Openly!  It was all of that!  I saw her,—­across the table through the flowers.  And, Billee,—­she’s queer—­that’s what she is,—­queer!”

“Have you noticed that, too?  Yes, she is queer,—­here take this Little Flower.  She’s nearly asleep.”

“So she is,—­give her to me,—­there, there, mudder’s pressus,—­petty poppity,—­yes, she’s queer!”

“Who?  Fleurette?”

“You know very well I don’t mean Fleurette!  I mean that Pride of the West,—­that stranger within our gates,—­that thorn in the flesh,—­that awful Azalea!”

“Meaning me?” and Azalea herself popped her head in at the nursery door.

“Yes,” replied Farnsworth, imperturbably, “meaning you.  Come in, Azalea, I want to speak to you.  When have you heard from your father?”

“Let me see—­about a week ago, I think.”

“Will you show me the letter?”

“Why, how inquisitive you are!  What do you want to see it for?”

“I’d like to read it.  I suppose it isn’t distinctly a private letter.”

“N-no, of course not.  But, the truth is,—­I haven’t got it.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I—­I tore it up.”

“Was it unpleasant?”

“No, but as I had answered it,—­I didn’t need to keep it.”

“What was in it?  Tell me,—­in a general way.”

“Oh,—­it said—­he hoped I was well,—­and he—­he hoped you were well,—­and—­”

“And he hoped Patty was well! and he hoped the baby was well,—­yes,—­and after those polite hopes, what else did he say?”

“Why,—­why, I don’t know,—­I guess that was about all.”

“Oh, it was!  Why didn’t he tell you something about himself?  What he was doing,—­or going to do?”

“I don’t know.  Papa isn’t very much of a letter writer.”

“Well, he used to be!  It was his special forte.  I’ve had letters from him a dozen pages long.  I don’t believe he’s outgrown his bent of letter writing.  Now, listen, to this, Azalea, the next letter you get from him, I want you to show it to me, see?  If there’s anything in it you don’t want me to know about, cut that out,—­but show me at least the beginning and the ending,—­and a part of a page.  You hear me?”

“Of course I hear you,—­not being deaf!  And I’ll show you the letter,—­if I think of it.”

“You’ll think of it,—­I’ll see to that, myself.  You ought to get one soon, oughtn’t you?”

“No,—­I haven’t answered his last one yet.”

“Why, you just said you had!”