It was an early morning of the first week in June. Mrs. Lancaster always found it wise to rise with the lark and accomplish what she could before the door bell and telephone began for the day. This morning the grocery list was made out, the breakfast cooking, the vegetables partly prepared for the noon dinner, a blouse cut out for Tommy, and the porches fresh from the hose. Hilary, too, had risen early to work a hard problem, and it was she who had turned the hose on the porches. “Call your father now, Hilary, please, and tell him that breakfast is nearly ready. I will see about the boys presently. They are up but I must see that Gordon puts on a clean collar. Is Mary awake?” “Yes; I’ll dress her as soon as I call Father. June is all ready and studying her history.” It was a minister’s busy household. In due season, the breakfast over, Hilary and June had washed the dishes and with the boys were off to school. Mary was well established with her family of battered dolls under the apple tree near the kitchen door. Mrs. Lancaster had commenced to iron when the mail carrier arrived and Dr. Lancaster presently appeared, by way of the dining room door, to hand her a letter. “You are tired already, Grace,” said Dr. Lancaster. “You know I can’t bear to have you do this.” “I’ll not, reverend sir, as soon as we catch up a little; and anyway it is so hard to find anybody. My woman does the washing well, but I tried her on the ironing and it was hopeless! The children have so many starched things, too, this hot weather, and they have to look well in school.” “All the more reason, then, for having some help.” “School is almost out and then Hilary and June will be able to help me more.” Dr. Lancaster sighed and went back to his study, where much work of a different sort was waiting him. In a few minutes, Mrs. Lancaster with her open letter slipped to the study door, peeped in to see if her husband were writing and under the influence of the divine afflatus; but finding that he was still reading the morning paper, she went in to share the news of her rather amazing message. “Read this, dear, and tell me if I am dreaming.” Dr. Lancaster looked inquiringly at his wife, laid down the paper, took the letter and began to read it aloud. My dear Grace: It is at least three weeks, I know, since I wrote. But you can imagine how much there was to do and how sad it all was. I will write about it in detail later, but I have a special purpose in this letter.