Mrs. Hunt was not kept in total ignorance of what was transpiring at home. Sarah had written, cautiously and hopefully, of her father's sickness and her recall; repeating Mr. Hunt's wish that his consort should not hurry back through mistaken solicitude for his health and comfort; and they were taken at their word. A week elapsed before an answer arrived--a lengthy missive, that had cost the writer more pains and time than the preparation for her annual "crush" generally did. She was an indifferent penman, and sadly out of practice; but there was much to be said, and "Lucy, of course, circumstanced as she was, could not spare time to be her scribe." This significant phrase quickened Sarah's inborn curiosity; but there was nothing for the next three pages that fed or quieted it. They were filled with minute directions about housewifery--economical details, that would have served as capital illustrations of "Poor Richard's" maxims; injunctions, warnings, and receipts sufficient in quantity to last a young, frugally-disposed housekeeper for the remainder of her natural existence. It was a trial to this exemplary wife and mother, she confessed, to absent herself so long from her home duties; but circumstances had compelled her to stay at Saratoga. Of their nature, Sarah had already been informed in her sister's last letter. "Which I cannot have received, then"--Sarah interrupted herself to say, as she read to her father: "I have not heard from Lucy in four weeks. I have thought hard of her for not writing." "But," concluded Mrs. Hunt, "matters looks well just now, and I know your father will aggree, when he heers all about our season's work, that our labor and Money has been a good investment. Take care of the keys yourself, Sarah. Be pruedent, keep a sharp Lookout on the cook, and don't negleck your poor father. "Your Affectionate mother, "E. Hunt." "P. S. Your kitchen Girl must have a Great deel of spair Time. Set her to work cleening the House, for you may expeckt us home in two weeks, or maybe Less. "E. H." Lucy had slipped a note in the same envelope--a thin, satiny sheet, hardly larger than the little hand that had moved over its perfumed page. Her chirography was very running, very light, very ladylike, and, we need not say, very italical.