It is early in Summer. Mrs. Buzzell and Susie, now her trusted and much-loved friend, are sitting on the little vine-shaded porch of her cottage—not really a cottage, for it is at least an ordinary-sized country house, strong and well built; but she herself always so designates it. The baby, Minnie, is creeping over the porch floor, crowing with infantine glee, and now and then climbing up by the knees of Mrs. Buzzell, or by the railing which has been constructed to keep her within bounds. The lower leaves and buds of the roses and morning-glories, have suffered at her little hands, but she has learned by this time that they are not good to eat, and so pulls them off and scatters them in pure wantonness. The two women have been discussing a letter just received from Clara. For a time Clara’s letters were constantly arriving, not only to Susie, to Dr. Forest, to her mother, but alternately to the twins. These letters breathed the happiness that surrounded Clara like an atmosphere, and was rather implied than directly expressed, except to Susie. Mrs. Forest rejoiced that her eldest daughter was well established, and secretly she was greatly relieved to have Clara’s fate off her mind. There was no knowing, in her opinion, what Clara would have come to, with her inherited tendency to freedom, so unlike other girls, if she had not fortunately married young. Why, she might have become a frequenter of conventions, an agitator of woman’s rights—that was indeed what Mrs. Forest feared most—but, thanks to Providence, she had made an excellent match, and the mother’s soul was at rest, or free to plan and scheme for the respectable establishment of her two remaining daughters. On this summer day, in the little shaded porch, Susie had read to her friend, some portions of Clara’s last letter. Mrs. Buzzell sighed, and said, “It is too exalted for this commonplace world. It will not last.” “Oh, do not say that!” exclaimed Susie. “I know it sounds like croaking, Susie, but you will see I am right. It is always so. Clara worships that man, and we should worship nothing but the Creator. When we do, we lose it. When mothers make idols of their children, as her mother did of Dan, they die, or turn out like him. I am glad you do not love yours unreasonably. It is auntie who is in danger here,” said the good old lady, taking up the child and caressing it fondly. “I cannot believe it a crime to love—even to love inordinately, as Clara does,” said Susie. “Her nature is peculiarly fervent. She told me once that the look, the touch of Albert’s hand, made her tremulous with emotion. If he should fail her, she would suffer more than most of us could, I think.”