But to return to our mutton.  Nothing could be more delightful, or, on the whole, more probable to me, than your decision to return to Outpost, instead of settling in Boston or New York.  I can hardly fancy my cousin Dora changed into a fine lady, and fretting herself thin over the color of ribbon, or the trail of a skirt; and I am not surprised that she finds what is called “society” puzzling and wearisome.  Your life, Dora, began upon too wide a plan to bear narrowing down into conventional limits now; and I feel through my own heart the thrill with which you wrote the words,—­

“I long for the opportunity of action and usefulness; I long for the freedom of the prairie, and the dignity of labor; I long to resume my old life, and to see my husband begin his new one.”

But, to be quite frank, I was a little surprised that Mr. Burroughs should enter so heartily into your plan of resuming the farm.  To be sure, I suppose the land-agency, and the practice of his profession, will occupy most of his time; and his principal concern with the estate will be to admire your able management of it.  You and he, my dear Dora, seem to form not only a mutual-admiration, but a mutual-encouragement and mutual-assistance society; and I wish my partnership with Dr. Gershom was half as satisfactory an arrangement.

Yesterday, after receiving your letter, I rode directly to Outpost, and communicated your wishes to Seth and Mehitable.  The former threw the chip he was whittling into the fire, and said,—­

“Miss Burroughs coming back?  Waal, then, I’ll stop; but I own, doctor, I wouldn’t ha’ done it ef she hadn’t.  It’s took all the heart out o’ the place, her bein’ gone so.”

And Mehitable and he joined in a chorus of praises and reminiscences, which, pleasant though I found it, I will not put you to the blush by repeating.  Both, however, promised faithfully that the house and farm should be ready for you by the middle of April; and Seth says he can take hold “right smart” at helping put up the new house, as he was “raised a carpenter,” in part at least.

You ask about me, my dear cousin; but what have I to tell?  I work hard at my profession, and take nearly all the night-practice off Dr. Gershom’s hands; so I have very little leisure for any thing besides:  and you say to be useful is to be happy; so I suppose I am happy; but, if I may be allowed the suggestion, it is rather a negative kind of bliss, and will be decidedly augmented when Outpost is once again open to me as a second home (I assure you I shall be a frequent visitor), and when Burroughs comes to occupy an office beside my own.

As for the rumor of my engagement to Sarah Gershom, it is quite unfounded.  I am not thinking of marrying at present.