“With love and congratulations,

“Helen.”

The other letter, which I opened with considerable reverence and more delight, ran as follows:—­

“Hillcrest, June 29, 1875.

“Dear friend Helen:—­Something has happened, and I am very happy, but I am more than a little troubled over it, too, and as you are one of the persons nearly concerned, I am going to confess to you as soon as possible.  Harry—­your brother, I mean—­will be sure to tell you very soon, if he hasn’t done so already, and I want to make all possible haste to solemnly assure you that I hadn’t the slightest idea of such a thing coming to pass, and I didn’t do the slightest thing to bring it about.

“I always thought your brother was a splendid fellow, and have never been afraid to express my mind about him, when there was no one but girls to listen.  But out here I’ve somehow learned to admire him more than ever.  I cheerfully acquit him of intentionally doing anything to create a favorable impression; if his several appearances before me have been studied, he is certainly the most original being I ever heard of.  Your children are angels—­you’ve told me so yourself, and I’ve my own very distinct impression on the subject, but they don’t study to save their uncle’s appearance.  The figures that unfortunate man has cut several times—­well, I won’t try to describe them on paper, for fear he might some day see a scrap of it, and take offense.  But he always seems to be patient with them, and devoted to them, and I haven’t been able to keep from seeing that a man who could be so lovable with thoughtless and unreasonable children must be perfectly adorable to the woman he loved, if she were a woman at all.  Still, I hadn’t the faintest idea that I would be the fortunate woman.  At last the day came, but I was in blissful ignorance of what was to happen.  Your little Charley hurt himself, and insisted upon Har—­your brother singing an odd song to him; and just when the young gentleman was doing the elegant to a dozen of us ladies at once, too!  If you could have seen his face!—­it was too funny, until he got over his annoyance, and began to feel properly sorry for the little fellow—­then he seemed all at once to be all tenderness and heart, and I did wish for a moment that conventionalities didn’t exist, and I might tell him that he was a model.  Then your youngest playfully spilt a plate of soup on my dress (don’t be worried—­’twas only a common muslin, and ’twill wash).  Of course I had to change it, and as I retired the happy thought struck me that I’d make so elaborate a toilet that I wouldn’t finish in time to join the other ladies for the usual evening walk; consequence, I would have a chance to monopolize a gentleman for half an hour or more—­a chance which, no thanks to the gentlemen who don’t come to Hillcrest, no lady here has had this season.  Every time