for poor Ned.  I don’t know, though; she may be more interesting than I thought.  Anything is better than the dead level of small books on large ones, and meals on time.  It cannot be exactly monotonous never to know whether you will find a sleek, purry cat, or an absurd kitten, or a tigress, when you come home.  Luckily, she did not tell Ned of her jealousy, and I have cautioned all in my family to hold their tongues, and I think they will.  I infer that they suspect that I must have been guilty of some unbecoming elderly prank to bring about such a state of affairs, unless, possibly, Maria’s husband and Billy are exceptions.  I find that Billy, when Alice lets him alone, is a boy who sees with his own eyes.  He told me yesterday that I was handsomer in my pink dress than any girl in his school.

“Why, Billy Talbert!” I said, “talking that way to your old aunt!”

“I suppose you are awful old,” said Billy, bless him! “but you are enough-sight prettier than a girl.  I hate girls.  I hope I can get away from girls when I am a man.”

I wanted to tell the dear boy that was exactly the time when he would not get away from girls, but I thought I would not frighten him, but let him find it out for himself.

Well, now the deluge!  It is a week since Harry Goward went away, and Peggy has not had a letter, although she has haunted the post-office, poor child! and this morning she brought home a letter for me from that crazy boy.  She was white as chalk when she handed it to me.

“It’s Harry’s writing,” said she, and she could barely whisper.  “I have not had a word from him since he went away, and now he has written to you instead of me.  What has he written to you for, Aunt Elizabeth?”

She looked at me so piteously, poor, dear little girl! that if I could have gotten hold of Harry Goward that moment I would have shaken him.  I tried to speak, soothingly.  I said: 

“My dear Peggy, I know no more than you do why he has written to me.  Perhaps his uncle is dead and he thought I would break it to you.”

That was rank idiocy.  Generally I can rise to the occasion with more success.

“What do I care about his old uncle?” cried poor Peggy.  “I never even saw his uncle.  I don’t care if he is dead.  Something has happened to Harry.  Oh, Aunt Elizabeth, what is it?”

I was never in such a strait in my life.  There was that poor child staring at the letter as if she could eat it, and then at me.  I dared not open the letter before her.  We were out on the porch.  I said: 

“Now, Peggy Talbert, you keep quiet, and don’t make a little fool of yourself until you know you have some reason for it.  I am going up to my own room, and you sit in that chair, and when I have read this letter I will come down and tell you about it.”

“I know he is dead!” gasped Peggy, but she sat down.

“Dead!” said I.  “You just said yourself it was his handwriting.  Do have a little sense, Peggy.”  With that I was off with my letter, and I locked my door before I read it.