the kitchen sink.  I therefore enclose you three hundred dollars and beg that you will have the well piped at once, and if there is any way to carry the water to the bedroom floor, do it, and let me send the extra amount involved.  You will naturally have the well cleaned out anyway, but I should prefer never to know what you found in it.  My only other large gift to you in the past was one of ornaments, sent, you remember, at the time of your wedding!

["We remember!” groaned the children in chorus.]

I do not regret this, though my view of life, of its sorrows and perplexities, has changed somewhat, and I am more practical than I used to be.  The general opinion is that in giving for a present an object of permanent beauty, your friends think of you whenever they look upon it.

["That’s so!” remarked Gilbert to Nancy.]

    This is true, no doubt, but there are other ways of making
    yourself remembered, and I am willing that you should think
    kindly of Cousin Ann whenever you use the new pump.

The second improvement I wish made with the money is the instalment of a large furnace-like stove in the cellar, which will send up a little heat, at least, into the hall and lower rooms in winter.  You will probably have to get the owner’s consent, and I should certainly ask for a five years’ lease before expending any considerable amount of money on the premises.

If there is any money left, I should suggest new sills to the back doors and those in the shed.  I noticed that the present ones are very rotten, and I dare say by this time you have processions of red and black ants coming into your house.  It seemed to me that I never saw so much insect life as in Beulah.  Moths, caterpillars, brown-tails, slugs, spiders, June bugs, horseflies, and mosquitoes were among the pests I specially noted.  The Mr. Popham who drove me to the station said that snakes also abounded in the tall grass, but I should not lay any stress on his remarks, as I never saw such manners in my life in any Christian civilized community.  He asked me my age, and when I naturally made no reply, he inquired after a few minutes’ silence whether I was unmarried from choice or necessity.  When I refused to carry on any conversation with him he sang jovial songs so audibly that persons going along the street smiled and waved their hands to him.  I tell you this because you appear to have false ideas of the people in Beulah, most of whom seemed to me either eccentric or absolutely insane.

    Hoping that you can endure your life there when the water smells
    better and you do not have to carry it from the well, I am

    Yours affectionately,

    ANN CHADWICH.

“Children!” said Mrs. Carey, folding the letter and slipping the check into the envelope for safety, “your Cousin Ann is really a very good woman.”