“Got what?” asked Mildred, in some surprise, and Lilian rejoined, “Lawrence comes home from Chicago to-night, you know, and when he finds I’m gone, he’ll be horridly lonesome, and his father’s dingy old office will look dingier than ever. Suppose I write and invite him to come out here, saying you wish it, too?” “Well, suppose you do,” returned Mildred with the utmost gravity. “There’s plenty of materials in my desk. Will you write sitting up in bed?” and in the eyes which looked every way but at Lilian there was a spice of mischief. “You hateful thing,” returned Lilian. “You know well enough that when I say ‘_I_ am going to write to Lawrence,’ I mean _you_ are going to write. He’s so completely hoodwinked that I cannot now astonish him with one of my milk-and-water epistles. Why, I positively spell worse and worse, so Geraldine says. Think of my putting an _h_ in _precious_!” “But Lawrence will have to know it some time,” persisted Mildred, “and the longer it is put off the harder it will be for you.” “He needn’t know either,” said Lilian. “I mean to have you give me ever so many drafts to carry home, and if none of them suit the occasion Geraldine must write, though she bungles awfully. And when I’m his wife, I sha’n’t care if he does know. He can’t help himself then. He’ll have to put up with his putty head.” “But will he respect you, Lily, if he finds you deceived him to the last?” Mildred asked; and with a look very much like a frown in her soft blue eyes, Lilian replied: “Now, Milly, I believe you are in love with him yourself, and do this to be spiteful, but you needn’t. His father and Geraldine have always told him he should marry me, and once when some one teased him of you, I heard him say that he shouldn’t want to marry a woman unless he knew something of her family, for fear they might prove to be paupers, or even worse. Oh, Milly, Milly, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” and jumping upon the floor, the impulsive Lilian wound her arms around Mildred, whose tears were dropping fast. Mildred could not have told why she cried. She only knew that Lilian’s words grated harshly, but hers was a sunshiny nature, and conquering all emotion, she returned Lilian’s caress and said: “I will write the letter, Lily,—write it to-night if you like.” “I knew you would. You’re a splendid girl,” and giving her another hug Lilian jumped back into bed, and made herself quite comfortable while Mildred knotted up her silken hair and brought out her desk preparatory to her task. Never before had it caused her so much pain to write “Dear Lawrence” as to-night, and she was tempted to omit it, but Lilian was particular to have every word. “She never could remember, unless she saw it before her, whether the ‘Dear’ and the ‘Lawrence’ occupied the same or separate lines,” she said; so Mildred wrote it down at last, while half unconsciously to herself she repeated the words, “Dear Lawrence.”