“Dear Princess Polly:—­” the letter began, and then followed loving assurance of her true affection for her “own Polly,” very tender inquiries for Sir Mortimer, the beautiful cat, and tales of little happenings in the new home.

“Great-Aunt Rose is kind, and Aunt Lois is gentle and sweet, but I’m lonsum.

“The rooms are large, and cool and dark, and sometimes when the garden is hot and sunny, I go to the parlor, and try to amuse myself, but oh, I wish I had someone to play with.  When I try to pick out a tune on the piano, the notes sound so loud, I turn around to see if Aunt Rose is provokt, but she never folows me.  There’s a portrate of a funny old man that hangs at the end of the parlor, and I always think he’s watching me.  When I smile, he seems to smile, and when I’m lonsum, he doesn’t look jolly at all.  There’s five people in this house beside me.  There’s my two aunts, and three servants, but no one makes any noise, and oh, sometimes I wish they would.

“Aunt Rose says sometime she’ll give a party for me, but she says there must be no romping, and that it must be dig-ni-fide.  I don’t believe I spelled that right, and I’m not sure what it means, but it doesn’t sound nice.  I don’t believe the children that come to it, will like a party that’s digni—­, I can’t write that long word again.

“Aunt Lois is to have her portrate painted, and I’m to go with her to the artist’s studyo.

“Aunt Rose just came in, and said, ’That is a long letter.  Shall I help you with the spelling?’ I didn’t let her.  I know some of the words are funny, but I don’t want her to see this letter.

“I haven’t said anything norty in it, only about how quiet and lonsum it is, but she mite not like that.  I just had to tell you.  Aunt Rose is going to ask you to visit me, and I’ll be so glad when you come.

Your loving little friend,

Rose.

P.S.—­Aunt Rose said this morning that I ort to sine my name, Rose Jerusha Atherton, because that’s her name, and I was named for her.  How can I?  Isn’t Jerusha orful?”

Of course the three little friends sympathized with Rose.

They felt as if they had seen the quaint, beautiful old house, with its dark, cool rooms.

They seemed to see bright, merry little Rose, now quiet, and lonely, wandering through the great hall to the parlor, to find a companion in the piano, or looking up into the friendly face of the old gentleman whose portrait she had described.

“And she says she is to go with her aunt to the artist’s studio,” said Leslie, “and wouldn’t I like to do that?  Just think what fun it would be to see him painting.”

“I wonder if he’ll let Rose watch him?” said Polly.

“There’d be no fun in going if she couldn’t see him paint,” declared Leslie “and if I were Rose, I would watch him, if I had to peep when he wasn’t looking.”