Such a flutter as we are in!  The whole house is being cleaned and all the curtains washed.  I am driving to the Corners this morning to get some new oilcloth for the entry, and two cans of brown floor paint for the hall and back stairs.  Mrs. Dowd is engaged to come tomorrow to wash the windows (in the exigency of the moment, we waive our suspicions in regard to the piglet).  You might think, from this account of our activities, that the house was not already immaculate; but I assure you it was!  Whatever Mrs. Semple’s limitations, she is a housekeeper.

But isn’t it just like a man, Daddy?  He doesn’t give the remotest hint as to whether he will land on the doorstep today, or two weeks from today.  We shall live in a perpetual breathlessness until he comes—­ and if he doesn’t hurry, the cleaning may all have to be done over again.

There’s Amasai waiting below with the buckboard and Grover.  I drive alone—­but if you could see old Grove, you wouldn’t be worried as to my safety.

With my hand on my heart—­farewell. 
          
                                         Judy

PS.  Isn’t that a nice ending?  I got it out of Stevenson’s letters.

Saturday Good morning again!  I didn’t get this enveloped yesterday before the postman came, so I’ll add some more.  We have one mail a day at twelve o’clock.  Rural delivery is a blessing to the farmers!  Our postman not only delivers letters, but he runs errands for us in town, at five cents an errand.  Yesterday he brought me some shoe-strings and a jar of cold cream (I sunburned all the skin off my nose before I got my new hat) and a blue Windsor tie and a bottle of blacking all for ten cents.  That was an unusual bargain, owing to the largeness of my order.

Also he tells us what is happening in the Great World.  Several people on the route take daily papers, and he reads them as he jogs along, and repeats the news to the ones who don’t subscribe.  So in case a war breaks out between the United States and Japan, or the president is assassinated, or Mr. Rockefeller leaves a million dollars to the John Grier Home, you needn’t bother to write; I’ll hear it anyway.

No sign yet of Master Jervie.  But you should see how clean our house is—­and with what anxiety we wipe our feet before we step in!

I hope he’ll come soon; I am longing for someone to talk to.  Mrs. Semple, to tell you the truth, gets rather monotonous.  She never lets ideas interrupt the easy flow of her conversation.  It’s a funny thing about the people here.  Their world is just this single hilltop.  They are not a bit universal, if you know what I mean.  It’s exactly the same as at the John Grier Home.  Our ideas there were bounded by the four sides of the iron fence, only I didn’t mind it so much because I was younger, and was so awfully busy.  By the time I’d got all my beds made and my babies’ faces washed and had gone to school and come home and had washed their faces again and darned their stockings and mended Freddie Perkins’s trousers (he tore them every day of his life) and learned my lessons in between—­I was ready to go to bed, and I didn’t notice any lack of social intercourse.  But after two years in a conversational college, I do miss it; and I shall be glad to see somebody who speaks my language.