The fervid heat of summer has passed, and the hazy light which betokens the fall of the leaf has come. On the northern hills, they say, the November snows have already fallen, but we are still basking in the soft sunlight of a most glorious autumn; and as I write, the south wind comes in through the open window, whispering to me of the fading flowers, whose perfume it gathered as it floated along. Just opposite me, in a willow chair, with her head buried in a towering turban of royal purple, sits Juno, a middle aged woman, nodding to the breeze, which occasionally brushes past her so fast that she lazily opens her eyes, and with her long-heeled foot gives a jog to the _rosewood crib_, wherein lies sleeping a little tiny thing which was _left_ here five weeks ago to-day. Oh, how odd and funny it seemed when Richard first laid on my arm a little bundle of cambric and lace, and whispered in my ear, “Would you like to see our baby?” She is a great pet, and should this book never reach so far as Georgia, Mrs. Lansing, I am sure, will like me all the same, for her words and manner have been very kind since the morning when I said to Richard, “We will call our baby _Jessie_.” So Jessie was she baptized, Mrs. Lansing’s tears falling like rain on the face of the unconscious child, which she folded to her bosom as tenderly as if it had indeed been her own lost Jessie come back to her again. Upon Ada the arrival of the stranger produced a novel effect, overwhelming her with such a load of modesty that she kept out of Richard’s way nearly two weeks, and never once came to see me until I was sitting up in my merino morning gown, which she had embroidered for me herself. Ada has a very nice sense of propriety! But little more remains for me to say, and that I must say briefly. I am determined to finish my story, and as my husband for the first time since my illness has left me alone for an hour or two, I am improving the opportunity, having first bribed Bertha to bring me my writing materials, by promising her a dress which she has long coveted. The royal purple turban by the window has become somewhat displaced by the strong west wind, and now wide awake, begins to grumble at “Miss Rosy’s _impudence_ in ’xertin’ herself to write trash which is of no kind o’ count, and which no _human_ will ever read.” I hope her prediction is a false one, for I have lately conceived the idea of devoting the entire proceeds of this book to the benefit of _Rosa Lee_, who, of course, has no part in the $10,000 which her father has married!