Our Uncle Peter said he was perfectly repaid. He made a frown at my Father. When bed-time came I climbed up into my Mother's lap and told her all about it,--the house,--the cocoa,--the toy Ferris Wheel,--the blue daisies on the stair carpet,--the pigeon that lit on my window-sill in the morning,--the splashy way Tiger Lily lapped his milk. "It will be interesting," said my Mother, "to see what we hear from Tiger Lily as Time goes on." Time went on pretty quickly. Pansies happened and yellow poppies and ducks and two kittens and August. It wasn't till almost Autumn that we ever heard from Tiger Lily or the little boy again. When the letter came it was from the little boy. But it was the Lady who wrote it. We thought her writing would be all black and sorrowful. But it was violet-colored instead, with all the ends of her letters quirked up with surprise like her face, only prancier. "My dear little friends," wrote the Lady, "Dicky wishes me to tell you how much we enjoyed your delightful visit, and to say that Tiger Lily is a sweet dog. He thinks you are mistaken about Tiger Lily not hunting. Tiger Lily hunts very well he says,--'only different.' It's mice, he wants me to tell you, that Tiger Lily is very fierce about. And bugs of any sort. All in-door hunting in fact. Certainly our wood-boxes and our fire-places have been kept absolutely free of mice this entire season. And Cook says that not a June Bug has survived. Truly it's very gratifying. Also Dicky wants me to tell you that there's a field. It's got a brook in it where you can sail boats and everything. It's most a mile. This is all for this time Dicky says. "With affectionate regards, I am, etc.----" Our Mother looked up across the top of the letter. It was at my Father that she looked. "Poor dear Lady," she said. "I hope she's happier now. It's that Mrs. Harnon, you know. Her marriage was so unfortunate to that dreadful Harnon man." "U--m--m," said my Father. We read the letter over and over waiting for the next one and wondering about Tiger Lily. There wasn't any next one till most Thanksgiving. When it came at last it was Dicky's letter just the same, but it was written in our Uncle Peter's handwriting this time. It seemed funny. But perhaps the Lady's hand was lame and she advertised for help.--Our Uncle Peter reads all the newspapers. The letter was awful short. And there weren't any quirks in it or anything. Just ink. This is what it said: "Mutts: Tiger Lily's got nine puppies. We're sleeping fine. Dicky." Our Mother looked at our Father. Our Father looked at our Mother. They both looked at the letter again. "My brother Peter's handwriting just as sure as you're born!" said my Father. "Of course it's Peter's writing," said our Mother. Her cheeks were quite pink. "Well of all the unexpected romances--" she said. "Whose?" I said.