She [thus Lucinda invariably began] is the same as ever.  It’s cross the heart and bend the knee, an’ then you ain’t down far enough to suit her.  But she’s gettin’ so afraid she’ll go that she’s wax in her hands.  It would scare you.  She won’t let her out of her sight a minute.  I must say that whatever she’s giving her, she certainly is earning the money, for she works her harder every day.  The poor thing is hopping about, or singing, or playing cards, from dawn to dark, and unless it’s a provision in her will I can’t see what would pay her enough for working so.  Lord knows I considered I earned my wages without skipping around with my legs crossed like she does, and she has no end of patience too, even if she won’t ever let her take a walk.  She’s getting as pale as she is herself.  Seems like something should be done.

Respectfully,

L. COOKE.

Three days later Lucinda wrote again: 

She does seem to be getting worse and worse.  She makes her sleep on a sofa beside her, and she begins to look dreadfully worn out.  I do believe she’ll kill her, before she dies herself.  I told her so to-day, but she only smiled.  It’s funny, but I like her even if I am bolted out all the time.  I ain’t jealous, and I’m glad of the rest.  I should think her throat would split with talking so much, but she certainly does hear her better than anyone else.  I think something must be done, though.  She’s getting as crazy as she is herself.  They play cards and call each other “aunty” for two hours at a stretch some days.

      Respectfully,

      L. COOKE.

At the end of the week Lucinda wrote again: 

I think if you don’t come, she will surely die.  She is very feeble herself, but that don’t keep her from wearing her to skin and bone.  She keeps her doing tricks from morning to night.  Every minute that she is awake she keeps her jumping.  It’s a mercy she sleeps so much, or she wouldn’t get any sleep at all.  I can’t do nothing, but I can see something has got to be done.  She’s killing her, and she’s getting where she don’t care for nobody but her, and if she’s to be kept in trim to keep on amusing her she’ll have to have some rest pretty quick.

      Respectfully,

      L. COOKE.

If the sisters were perturbed by the general trend of these epistles, Jack was half wild over the situation.  He swore vigorously and he tramped up and down his room nights until the people underneath put it in their prayers that his woes might suggest suicide as speedily as possible.  In vain he wrote to Mrs. Rosscott to restore Janice to her proper place in town; Mrs. Rosscott answered that as long as Aunt Mary desired Janice at her side, at her side Janice should stay.  Jack knew his lady well enough to know that she would keep her word, and although he longed to assert his authority he was man enough to feel that he had better wait now and settle the debt after marriage.