suffrage” emptying all the sewers into the great aqueduct we all must drink from.  “Universal suffrage!” I suppose we women don’t belong to the universe!  Wait until we get a chance at the ballot-box, I tell grandma, and see if we don’t wash out the sewers before they reach the aqueduct!  But my pen has run away with men I was thinking of Paolo, and what a pleasant thing it is to have one of those child-like, warm-hearted, attachable, cheerful, contented, humble, faithful, companionable, but never presuming grownup children of the South waiting on one, as if everything he could do for one was a pleasure, and carrying a look of content in his face which makes every one who meets him happier for a glimpse of his features.

It does seem a shame that the charming relation of master and servant, intelligent authority and cheerful obedience, mutual interest in each other’s welfare, thankful recognition of all the advantages which belong to domestic service in the better class of families, should be almost wholly confined to aliens and their immediate descendants.  Why should Hannah think herself so much better than Bridget?  When they meet at the polls together, as they will before long, they will begin to feel more of an equality than is recognized at present.  The native female turns her nose up at the idea of “living out;” does she think herself so much superior to the women of other nationalities?  Our women will have to come to it,—­so grandmother says,—­in another generation or two, and in a hundred years, according to her prophecy, there will be a new set of old “Miss Pollys” and “Miss Betseys” who have lived half a century in the same families, respectful and respected, cherished, cared for in time of need (citizens as well as servants, holding a ballot as well as a broom, I tell her), and bringing back to us the lowly, underfoot virtues of contentment and humility, which we do so need to carpet the barren and hungry thoroughfare of our unstratified existence.

There, I have got a-going, and am forgetting all the news I have to tell you.  There is an engagement you will want to know all about.  It came to pass through our famous boat-race, which you and I remember, and shall never forget as long as we live.  It seems that the young fellow who pulled the bow oar of that men’s college boat which we had the pleasure of beating got some glimpses of Georgina, our handsome stroke oar.  I believe he took it into his head that it was she who threw the bouquet that won the race for us.  He was, as you know, greatly mistaken, and ought to have made love to me, only he did n’t.  Well, it seems he came posting down to the Institute just before the vacation was over, and there got a sight of Georgina.  I wonder whether she told him she didn’t fling the bouquet!  Anyhow, the acquaintance began in that way, and now it seems that this young fellow, good-looking and a bright scholar, but with a good many months more to pass in college, is her captive.  It was too bad.  Just think of my bouquet’s going to another girl’s credit!  No matter, the old Atalanta story was paid off, at any rate.