“Now I want to ask a favor of you. When we were boys and girls at home, you used to talk perfect oceans about physiognomy, and phrenology, and unerring signs of character. I thought it was all nonsense then, but if you believe it now, I wish you’d study the children, and give me your well-considered opinion of them. [Perfect demons, ma’am; imps, rascals, born to be hung—both of them.] “I can’t get over the feeling that dear Budge is born for something grand. [Grand nuisance.] He is sometimes so thoughtful and so absorbed, that I almost fear the result of disturbing him; then, he has that faculty of perseverance which seems to be the only thing some men have lacked to make them great. [He certainly has it; he exemplified it while I was trying to get to sleep this morning.] “Toddie is going to make a poet or a musician or an artist. [That’s so; all abominable scamps take to some artistic pursuit as an excuse for loafing.] His fancies take hold of him very strongly. [They do—they do; “shee wheels go wound,” for instance.] He has not Budgie’s sublime earnestness, but he doesn’t need it; the irresistible force with which he is drawn toward whatever is beautiful compensates for the lack. [Ah—perhaps that explains his operation with my trunk.] But I want your _own_ opinion, for I know you make more careful distinction in character than I do. “Delighting myself with the idea that I deserve most of the credit for the lots of reading you will have done by this time, and hoping I shall soon have a line telling me how my darlings are, I am, as ever, “Your loving sister, “HELEN.” Seldom have I been so roused by a letter as I was by this one, and never did I promise myself more genuine pleasure in writing a reply. I determined that it should be a masterpiece of analysis and of calm yet forcible expression of opinion. Upon one step, at any rate, I was positively determined. Calling the girl, I asked her where the key was that locked the door between my room and the children. “Please, sir, Toddie threw it down the well.” “Is there a locksmith in the village?” “No, sir; the nearest one is at Paterson.” “Is there a screw-driver in the house?” “Yes, sir.” “Bring it to me, and tell the coachman to get ready at once to drive me to Paterson.” The screw-driver was brought, and with it I removed the lock, got into the carriage, and told the driver to take me to Paterson by the hill road—one of the most beautiful roads in America. “Paterson!” exclaimed Budge. “Oh, there’s a candy store in that town; come on, Toddie.” “Will you?” thought I, snatching the whip and giving the horses a cut. “Not if _I_ can help it. The idea of having such a drive spoiled by the clatter of _such_ a couple!”