It was a blustery Saturday toward the last of March. Sally had written her letter to Fox and one to Doctor Galen, more to take up time than because she had anything to say that she thought was worth saying; but the kind doctor seemed to like to get her rather infrequent letters, and he always answered them, although his answers were rather short. But what could she expect of a doctor who was as busy as Doctor Galen? Not much, truly. Cousin Martha had told her so. Perhaps I had better call her Patty. Everybody called her Patty or Miss Patty. Even Sally had fallen into that habit. Miss Patty may have preferred it or she may not have; her preference did not seem to matter. As I was saying, Cousin Patty had told her so, and had intended the telling, it seemed to Sally, rather as a rebuke. Now, Sally did not know why she should be rebuked,--for her conscience was clear. But the fame of Doctor Galen had gone forth in the land and Cousin Patty considered it a great honor that any one of her family connections was under his care. Hence her seeming rebuke. Sally had finished her letter to the doctor and it was only half-past eight. She sighed as the hall clock--which, by the way, was in the back parlor--struck the half-hour, solemnly, as if it were aware of the importance of its office. That tall clock did its whole duty conscientiously--with Uncle John's help. Sally sat gazing at the clock and meditating. It was no less than astonishing, when you came to think of it, what a lot of things in that house depended upon Uncle John's help. He never made a show of giving it, but a quiet word here and a calm smile there did wonders. He was a regulator, that was what he was; a sort of a pendulum, to make things go right. Sally had become very fond of Uncle John. Cousin Patty--well--she seemed to need a regulator, not to put it any more strongly. Sally smiled as the idea crossed her mind, and she took the end of the pen-holder from its place between her teeth and returned to the perusal of her letter. Sally always read over her letters, and, having read this one over, she added a postscript telling the doctor--a very private joke between him and her--of Cousin Patty's rebuke. She knew that he would be amused. When she had the doctor's letter sealed, she looked up again at the clock. "Oh, dear!" she murmured; "it must have stopped." She knew very well that the clock would not be guilty of such misbehavior as long as it had Uncle John's help. "I'll write to Henrietta." To tell the truth, Sally had not missed Henrietta one half as much as she had missed Fox, but if she did not write her very often it was simply because she forgot it. When she remembered, she was always very sorry and wrote frequently, until she forgot again. Sally's letters to Henrietta came in bunches, with intervals of a month or more between the bunches. She had not got very far on this one when Uncle John came in. He was very late that morning.