I began this letter yesterday afternoon, before dinner, with the hope of getting it out in the evening mail, but Billie and Ernie Francis came down from town and stopped to dinner. I’m sure the Willoughbys have never been so gay in their lives--we’ve had company every day since I’ve been down here--but I can’t see that it has improved Aunt Susan’s disposition much. Something occurred last night that I suppose has shoved me a peg further down in Mr. Ormsby’s estimation. Not that I care! After dinner, Billie and Ernie and I went for a walk down to the village. It was very dark coming back, and, walking between them, naturally I didn’t resent it when each took one of my hands. There’s something so _comforting_ about the grasp of a strong man’s hand. Haven’t you often thought so, Betty? If I ever marry again, I intend to pick out a man who will be able to hold my hand in a nice way when I’m dying. Unfortunately, as we came around a bend in the road, a lantern was flashed at us. It was Ormsby, and you can’t imagine the look of disgust on his face when he took in the situation. As though it were any business of his! I had a wretched evening, for Billie and Ernie were furious because I permitted each to hold my hand. They have _such queer ideas_ of propriety! How little real pleasure one gets out of life, Betty! Louise has sent me down one of those _bébé_ hats--a perfect dream. I intend to wear it to church to-morrow morning and give the villagers a treat. By the way, dear, if you’ve any old clothes to dispose of, send them down here. I’ve discovered a poor family--father out of work, mother sick, baby three days old. They are absolutely destitute. I’ve ordered a beautiful christening robe for the baby, and have had the bill sent to Uncle Jacob. I intend to be its godmother. But why will those people insist on having so many children, Betty? Six in this family! _Fancy!_ I’ve a good mind to write to the President, and insist on his providing for them. This man, even when he works, doesn’t make enough to support two--to say nothing of six. The baby is quite pretty, except that its nose is inclined to spread. I’ve explained to the mother how, by pinching it every day, she can get it into quite a respectable shape. You see, the baby’s a girl, and much will depend upon its nose. If mine were Roman instead of _retroussé_, I would probably have been a bluestocking and respected by Mr. Ormsby. Not that I care, though! Lovingly, JANE. P. S.--I wish you’d leave an order at a bookstand to have all his books sent down. Have them sent c. o. d. to Uncle Jacob. CHAPTER VII.