Tom is the only one who ever had a bit of sentiment about Beulah, and he was always unwilling that the old place should be occupied by strangers.  The curious thing about the matter is that you and yours do not seem to be strangers to me and mine.  Do you know, dear little Miss Nancy, what brought the tears to my eyes in your letter?  The incident of your father’s asking what you could do to thank the Yellow House for the happy hour it had given you on that summer day long ago, and the planting of the crimson rambler by the side of the portico.  I have sent your picture tying up the rose,—­and it was so charming I was loath to let it go,—­with your letter, and the snap shot of the family group, all out to my son Tom in China.  He will know then why I have let the house, to whom, and all the attendant circumstances.  Trust him never to disturb you when he sees how you love the old place.  The planting of that crimson rambler will fix Tom, for he’s a romantic boy.

“The planting of the rose was a heavenly inspiration if it does ’fix Tom!’ We’ll call Tom the Chinese Enemy.  No, we’ll call him the Yellow Peril,” laughed Nancy in triumph.

    I am delighted with the sample of paper you have chosen for the
    front hall.

“I don’t see why you didn’t go over to Germany yourself, Nancy, and take a trunk of samples!” cried Mrs. Carey, wiping the tears of merriment from her eyes.  “I can’t think what the postage on your letter must have been.”

“Ten cents,” Nancy confessed, “but wasn’t it worth it, Muddy?—­Come, read the last few lines, and then we’ll run all the way home to tell the others.”

Send me anything more, at any time, to give me an idea of the delightful things you are doing.  I shall be proud if you honor me with an occasional letter.  Pray give my regards to your mother, whom I envy, and all the “stormy petrels,” whom I envy too.

    Believe me, dear Miss Nancy,

    Yours sincerely,

    LEMUEL HAMILTON.

“I can’t remember why I told him about Mother Carey’s chickens,” said Nancy reflectively.  “It just seemed to come in naturally.  The Yellow Peril must be rather nice, as well as his father, even if he is our enemy.  That was clever of him, putting his grandmother in the brick oven!” And here Nancy laughed, and laughed again, thinking how her last remark would sound if overheard by a person unacquainted with the circumstances.

“A delightful, warm, kind, friendly letter,” said Mother Carey, folding it with a caressing hand.  “I wish your father could have read it.”

“He doesn’t say a word about his children,” and Nancy took the sheets and scanned them again.

“You evidently gave him the history of your whole family, but he confines himself to his own life.”

“He mentions ‘my son Tom’ frequently enough, but there’s not a word of Mrs. Hamilton.”

“No, but there’s no reason there should be, especially!”