Diary, I dreamed a horrid dream last night. I dreamed that I stood with Richard Warren on some high wooded place--in my dreams, Diary, I can always stand--with my hands close in his. I couldn't see his face, but I knew him, somehow, and his voice was in my ears, just saying my name, over and over. "_Mavis! Mavis!_" But as the mist cleared before my eyes, someone said far off, "Ethereal!" and laughed. And as I looked, I saw, not Richard Warren, Poet and Dreamer of Dreams, but William Denton, Surgeon and Scoffer. It all sounds so foolish, Diary, written down, but it was really quite dreadful. Sarah, who must have heard me call out, for in my dream I wrenched my hands away and screamed, appeared at my bedside, like a familiar ghost. How I welcomed her, innumerable tightly plaited braids, and all! Breathe it not in Gath, but in this unpleasant fashion does Sarah achieve her crinkled morning coiffure! She tucked me in, secured a flapping shade, forced a potion of hot milk down my unwilling throat, and left me. So, finally, I slept again, to dream no more. This morning a note came to me from Mr. Denton. So nice a man to have so wretched a relation! NEW YORK CITY July 2d My dear little Mavis: Your good father is so poor a correspondent that I have struck his name from my letter-list. But you are always considerate of a lonely old man. Therefore I write to inform him, through you, that I am leaving this asphalt wilderness presently, for the White Mountains. Perhaps when my vacation there draws to a close, I may drop down to see you before returning to the 'demnition' grind. I shall look forward to a pleasant visit with you, and a quarrelsome time with your father, to whom, despite his neglect of me, I beg to be remembered. I am sending you some books and some exotic fruit, hoping to tempt your literary and physical palates, respectively. My nephew writes me that he has seen you. I envy him! But I am more than sorry, my dear, that your first encounter should have taken place under such unfortunate circumstances. I shall be grateful to you for any kindness you care to show him, for he has not had a very happy, albeit successful, career, and he is far from his Western home and his people. Remember me to your elderly and amiable handmaiden, whose beaten biscuit I recall with such felicity. Write me now and then, Mavis, and if I can in any way be of service to you, you have but to command me. Faithfully and affectionately your friend, JOHN DENTON P.S. How did you like _The Lyric Hour_? This afternoon the fruit and books arrived. Quantities of both. Sammy Simpson, Jr., who adds the arduous duties of expressman to those of milk purveyor, staggered upstairs under the burden of them. Into this very room, with his own hands, ably chaperoned by Sarah, he brought them. We had a little conversation. It ran something like this. Mavis: "Good afternoon, Sammy!"