“Well, little miss, and what do you suppose I’ve brought you from up town?  Put on your thinking-cap, and tell me.”

“Bananas? papaws? ’simmons? lemons?  Dear me, what is it?  Is it to eat or wear?  And have you got it in your pocket?”

Uncle Henry, who had had his hand behind him, now held it out with a letter in it—­a letter in a white envelope, directed, in clear, elegant writing, to “Miss Alice B. Parlin, care of H.S.  Clifford, Esq., Quinn, Indiana.”

There could be no mistake about it; the letter was intended for Dotty Dimple, and had travelled all the way by mail.  But then that title, Miss, before the name!  It was more than probable that the people all along the road had supposed it was intended for a young lady!

[Illustration:  DOTTY’S FIRST POST-OFFICE LETTER. Page 162.]

When the wonderful thing was given her, her “first post-office letter,” she clapped her hands for joy.

“Miss?  Miss?” repeated she, as Horace re-read the direction; for she was not learned in the mysteries of writing, and could not read it for herself.

“O, yes. Miss, certainly!  If it was to me, it would be Mr.”

“Master, you mean,” corrected Grace.

“No, Horace, you are not Mr. yet!” said Dotty, confidently; “you’ve never been married.”

The next thing in order was the reading of the letter.  Dotty tore it open with a trembling hand.  I should like to see another letter that would make a child so happy as that one did!  It was written by three different people, and all to the same little girl.  Not a line to Uncle Henry or Aunt Maria, or Horace or Grace.  All to Dotty’s self, as if she were a personage of the first importance.

Mamma began it.  How charming to see “My dear little daughter,” traced so carefully in printed capitals!  Then it was such a satisfaction to be informed, in the sweetest language, that this same “dear little daughter” was sadly missed.  Dotty was so glad to be missed!

There was a present waiting for her at home.  Mrs. Parlin was not willing to say what it was; but it had been sent by Aunt Madge from the city of New York, and must be something fine.

There were two whole pages of the clear, fair writing, signed at the close, “Your affectionate mother, Mary L. Parlin.”

Just as if Dotty didn’t know what mother’s name was!

Then Susy followed with a short account of Zip, and how he had stuck himself full of burs. (He wasn’t choked yet, thought Dotty; and that was a comfort.) Then a longer account of the children’s picnic at Deering’s Oaks.

Dotty sighed, and felt that fate had been rather cruel in depriving her of that picnic.

“But I have had something better than that,” said she, brightening; “I’ve walked on an Ensmallment, and I have picked pecans.”

But the best was to come.  It was from Prudy.