his mothers said you would want it right.  He spared me Jake Kelly to clean the rugs and peices of carpet, and I did the rest.  I think there is no dirt in the house now.  Fireplaces makes lots of dust but I should say the way they are enjoyed makes up for it.  I have tryed to do as you wanted about the pillows and apples and good food and I don’t think the young gentlemen are any liter in wate than when you went away.

“Hoping you will come home soon,

“Respectfully yours,

“JOANNA MARSHFIELD.”

Nobody but a housekeeper, and a young one at that, could appreciate what a load of anxiety this letter lifted from Sally’s mind.  She wanted to have the house immaculately clean, but—­the garden was waiting for her.  Now she could give her undivided thought to plans for the box-bordered beds, blessing Joanna for a maid-servant of priceless value.

Mrs. Ferry’s letter, arriving on the thirteenth, made Sally smile with the lilt of its lines: 

“Come, Sally dear, the spring is here, the air is mild and warm; showers happen by, but cause no sigh, they’re needed on the farm.  The garden waits, and stirs, and shakes the sleep from out its eyes, and gently sets the violets to blooming in surprise.  The grass grows green, a lark is seen, a robin calls “It’s Spring!” And everywhere, in earth and air, rejoices everything.  We want you near, we need you here to share each day’s delights; so hasten home, come soon, dear, come, we miss you so o’ nights!”

“Sweet little lady,” the girl, thought affectionately, “to take the trouble to think it out in rhyme for me.”

On the sixteenth of the month a rather interesting coincidence occurred; letters from Donald Ferry and from Jarvis Burnside arrived on that day.  Sally studied the superscriptions with interest, wondering what the handwriting might have indicated to her of the character of the writers, had she known nothing of either.  Opening the envelopes, she laid the sheets side by side.

Jarvis wrote a rather small but very black and regular hand, the result being serried rows marching like a regiment down the page, the hand of the man who is accustomed to do everything in an orderly and masterful way, and who can no more allow his words to straggle over a sheet of paper than he can permit his books to stand upside down upon the shelf, or the affairs of his every-day life to fall into confusion.  Ferry wrote a more dashing hand, the penmanship of the man whose ideas flow faster than his pen can put the words upon paper, and who cares less about the appearance of his page than for what can be fixed there before it shall escape him.  This letter, therefore, appeared less easy to read than the other, and this may have been why Sally attacked it first: 

“Dear Lady Of The Garden (it began whimsically):