never seen.  I have no doubt that Mrs. Fowler was far more useful than I could have been at the time of your trial, but it was a great disappointment to me not to be able to receive the little darling into the world.

But I had entirely forgotten that I started to tell you about Florrie Spencer’s marriage to Algernon Caperton.  Of course I couldn’t go, but Jane says the wedding was lovely and that Florrie looked really beautiful.  Bessie had on rose-coloured brocade.  Did you ever hear of such a thing at her age?  She was just as gay and flirtatious as a girl, Charley said, and she sent me some of the cake and a bottle of champagne, which, of course, I didn’t touch.  It is a pity she is so loud, for there isn’t a kinder heart in the world.  Florrie and Algernon are going to New York on their wedding trip.  Isn’t it exactly like Florrie to want to go to all the theatres?  They send you word, by the way, that they are certainly coming to see you and the baby.

And now that I have told all my news, I must write a little about myself, though I am afraid you will be upset by what I am obliged to tell you.  I put it off as long as I could—­for I do hate to worry you—­but the doctor has just been to see me and he says I must go to Florida immediately to stay until the bad weather is over.  I told him I couldn’t possibly afford it—­the trip would take a great deal of money—­but he insisted that I should write and tell you exactly what he said.  He said my lungs were very weak and that he ordered the change—­you know they never seem to consider expense—­and when he was leaving, he stopped in the hall to speak to Jane about it.  Poor Jane, she is so worried that she has almost gone deranged over my health, but as far as I am concerned I feel that I would rather pass away than cause so much trouble and upset everybody.  Jane, as you know, hasn’t a cent to her name, and it is out of the question her asking Charley, because he has had a very bad winter financially.  Even Cousin Jimmy stopped sending me the rent of the house since I moved to Jane’s, and as for Uncle Meriweather, he has been obliged to give up his business and go to live with his niece in the country.  So, much as I hate to ask you, my dear child, I feel that you would rather I did so—­and that I ought to be perfectly frank about the situation, particularly since poor Jane feels so deeply her inability to help me.  I am afraid I should need about four hundred dollars, as I have bought nothing to wear for years.  Bessie Spencer has told me of a very reasonable place where I could board, and it is just possible that she will be going herself by the time I am ready.  If for any reason you are unable to let me have the money, just destroy this letter and don’t think about it again.  I wouldn’t cause you a moment’s worry for anything in the world.

     With love to George and a dozen kisses for my precious little
     grandchild,