“Bloomdale, June 21, 1875.

“Dear Harry:—­I’m very happy in the thought that you are with my darling children, and, although I’m having a lovely time here, I often wish I was with you. [Ump—­so do I.] I want you to know the little treasures real well. [Thank you, but I don’t think I care to extend the acquaintanceship farther than is absolutely necessary.] It seems to me so unnatural that relatives know so little of those of their own blood, and especially of the innocent little spirits whose existence is almost unheeded. [Not when there’s unlocked trunks standing about, sis.]

“Now I want to ask a favor of you.  When we were boys and girls at home, you used to talk perfect oceans about physiognomy, and phrenology, and unerring signs of character.  I thought it was all nonsense then, but if you believe any of it now, I wish you’d study the children, and give me your well-considered opinion of them. [Perfect demons, ma’am; imps, rascals, born to be hung—­ both of them.]

“I can’t get over the feeling that dear Budge is born for something grand. [Grand nuisance.] He is sometimes so thoughtful and so absorbed, that I almost fear the result of disturbing him; then, he has that faculty of perseverance which seems to be the on|y thing some men have lacked to make them great. [He certainly has it; he exemplified it while I was trying to get to sleep this morning.]

“Toddie is going to make a poet or a musician or an artist. [That’s so; all abominable scamps take to some artistic pursuit as an excuse for loafing.] His fancies take hold of him very strongly. [They do—­they do; “shee wheels go wound,” for instance.] He has not Budgie’s sublime earnestness, but he doesn’t need it; the irresistible force with which he is drawn toward whatever is beautiful compensates for the lack. [Ah—­perhaps that explains his operation with my trunk.] But I want your own opinion, for I know you make more careful distinction in character than I do.

“Delighting myself with the idea that I deserve most of the credit for the lots of reading you will have done by this time, and hoping I shall soon have a line telling me how my darlings are, I am as ever, “Your loving sister, “Helen.”

Seldom have I been so roused by a letter as I was by this one, and never did I promise myself more genuine pleasure in writing a reply.  I determined that it should be a masterpiece of analysis and of calm yet forcible expression of opinion.

Upon one step, at any rate, I was positively determined.  Calling the girl, I asked her where the key was that locked the door between my room and the children.

“Please, sir, Toddie threw it down the well.”

“Is there a locksmith in the village?”

“No, sir; the nearest one is at Paterson.”

“Is there a screwdriver in the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring it to me, and tell the coachman to get ready at once to drive me to Paterson.”