They were perfect days, the four Father spent in Twickenham Town, and he was made over when he went away.  Every morning Mr. Willie Prince sent him up a mint julep that started the day so cheerfully he was happy through its every minute; and Major Roke, who makes the best ones in town, would come for him at twelve o’clock and take him to his house, and Mr. Letcher always managed to get hold of him about six in the afternoon, and at bedtime some one else would send one in.  And poor Father, who never drinks anything at home, it not being good for him, was in an awful state of mind at first, and then he decided he would rather die than hurt the feelings of the senders and he’d take the chance on his health.  He took.

I’m a fighting disbeliever in whisky, and if I had any say I’d say it couldn’t be made except for sickness, but you couldn’t get certain Twickenham-Towners to believe it is a dangerous thing, and to take a little something for the stomach’s sake is a recommendation in the Bible they approve of and obey.  It doesn’t seem to kill people here or some would have been a long time dead, but there are one or two it is a pity it hasn’t killed.  It does much worse than kill; it ruins.  I hope next time Father will say the doctor doesn’t permit him to touch anything.  I didn’t tell him so, of course, and I am afraid he will manage not to see the doctor before he leaves; but, anyhow, the morning and night juleps can be thrown out of the window after a sip to get the smell on if he wants to throw.  I wouldn’t take a bet that he will want, but I’m hoping.

I didn’t see much of Whythe while Father was here—­that is, by himself.  He was awfully nice to Father and he liked him very much (Father liked Whythe, I mean), but he couldn’t understand why he didn’t get more of a move on and make business for himself.  I told him in Twickenham Town people waited for business to come to them, and everybody knew Whythe was a lawyer, and if they needed his services they would let him know, and if they didn’t there was no use waiting around, which was why he was out of his office so much of the time.  And then Father asked me when I had heard from Billy and when he was coming home; and, thankful to change the subject, I told him all I knew and got out the cards and showed them to him.

We had so many things to talk about—­Mother and the girls and the home people and things, and the people he had met in Twickenham Town—­that he hadn’t talked about Billy, and when I showed him the cards he said Billy must have mighty little to do but write them, as there were fifty-six and he hadn’t been gone but five weeks.  He seemed to think that right many, so I didn’t say anything much about his letters, which are long and once a week, but told him Billy would sail on September 16th, and get back before I did—­that is, if I stayed until the 27th.  He said I could if I wanted to, and that he would come down for the last week and take me back with him, and I was so happy I swirled him around in my arms and danced a dance I made up as I went along, and both Billy and Whythe Eppes were out of his mind when he stopped for breath.  And that night he went away.  Also that night I almost cried my eyes out for sorrow at his going and for gladness that he was my Father.  I wonder if all girls love their fathers as I love mine!