By now Mr. Denton has brought you my incoherent note of thanks for the benison of Wigglesworth. Every day I thank you more. He is the dearest little friend one could imagine or wish for. I have taught him to bark loudly when I say your name, and I hope to bring him to an appreciation of poetry, by selected readings! Next week, sometime, I am to have my promised lawn fete to introduce the countryside to the new member of our household. Even Sarah has succumbed. I heard her talking something suspiciously like baby-talk to him this morning, when she came in with my tray and observed Wiggles regarding her brightly and wagging all over, from his basket at the foot of my bed. And Father is a willing captive of his charms, even luring him from me on long, companionable walks. But I believe that he is jealous of you because he has never thought of getting me a dog. I have had birds and goldfish and even an Angora kitten which lived but to run away. But never since childhood a real live dog of my own. Mr. Denton must have worked some magic with Father that he has so inexplicably allowed me to accept so valuable a gift from--a stranger? But no, I cannot call you that! I regret to report that Wigglesworth has conceived an adoration for the doctor. The one of no consequence, I mean. I cannot understand it, but there seems to be a natural affinity between the two. Later, I must write you all the things, or, anyway, almost all, which Mr. Denton said about you. For of course we had a little session behind closed doors, and I asked the poor man questions until his grey head rang. Aren't you curious? But before I repeat to you what was, of course, told to me in strictest confidence, I must ask you _if those things are true_. Wigglesworth sends his love. He is beside my bed, this minute, on the floor, holding up one paw in greeting. Very gratefully yours, WIGGLESWORTH'S SLAVE GREEN HILL September 5 Dear Diary, I'm sorry that I neglect you so. But you see, with friends calling every day to behold me, royally at home out of doors, and with a week's preparation for my "Come one, come all" tea, which took place yesterday afternoon, and with almost daily letters from Richard Warren to answer--I've so many now that they make far too bulky a book of you and so I have them tied up with ribbon, under my pillow--and with Peter's recent heroic attempt to drink gasoline, and Wigglesworth's brilliant development as a bloodhound--well, I have had but little time for you, Blue Book.