drawing, and in almost every letter came two or three childish but spirited little pictures, all labelled “Drawn for papa!” “The true picture of our courier in a rage, for papa to see.”  “The washerwoman’s dog, for papa,” etc., etc.  Again and again I sat by, almost trembling with delight, and saw John spend an entire evening in looking over these little missives and reading Ellen’s letters.  Then again I sat alone and anxious through an entire evening, when I knew he was with Emma Long.  But even after such an evening, he never failed to sit down and write pages in his journal-letter to Ellen—­a practice which he began of his own accord, after receiving the first journal-letter from her.

“Ha! little Alice,” he said, “we’ll keep a journal too, for mamma, won’t we!  She shall not out-do us that way.”  And so, between Alice’s letters and his, the whole record of our family life went every week to Ellen; and I do not believe, so utterly unaware was John Gray of any pain in his wife’s heart about Emma Long, I do not believe that he ever in a single instance omitted to mention when he had been with her, where, and how long.

Emma Long wrote too, and Ellen wrote to her occasional affectionate notes; but referring her always to John’s diary-letters for the details of interest.  I used to study Mrs. Long’s face while these letters were read to her.  John’s animated delight, his enthusiastic pride, must, it seemed to me, have been bitter to her.  But I never saw even a shade of such a feeling in her face.  There was nothing base or petty in Emma Long’s nature, and, strange as it may seem, she did love Ellen.  Only once did I ever see a trace of pique or resentment in her manner to John, and then I could not wonder at it.  A large package had come from Ellen, just after tea one night, and we were all gathered in the library, reading our letters and looking at the photographs—­(she always sent unmounted photographs of the place from which she wrote, and, if possible, of the house in which they were living, and the children often wrote above the windows, “Papa’s and mamma’s room,” etc, etc.)—­hour after hour passed.  The hall clock had just struck ten, when the door-bell rang violently.  “Good heavens!” exclaimed John, springing up, “that must be Mrs. Long; I totally forgot that I had promised to go with her to Mrs. Willis’s party.  I said I would be there at nine; tell her I am up-stairs dressing,” and he was gone before the servant had had time to open the door.  Mrs. Long came in, with a flushed face and anxious look.  “Is Mr. Gray ill?” she said.  “He promised to call for me at nine, to go to Mrs. Willis’s, and I have been afraid he might be ill.”

Before I could reply, the unconscious Alice exclaimed,—­

“Oh, no; papa isn’t ill; he is so sorry, but he forgot all about the party till he heard you ring the bell.  We were so busy over mamma’s letters.”

“John will be down in a moment,” added I.  “He ran up-stairs to dress as soon as you rang.”