"I wish you would speak to her," Patty sighed. "Azalea is really a trial. I don't know what to do with her. Sometimes she is so sweet and docile that I think I'm teaching her to be a civilised person, and then she flies off at a tangent and she's as unruly and intractable as she was at first." "How long has she been here now?" "Nearly a month. I've tried and Betty has tried,--and, yes, Azalea has tried herself,--but we can't seem to--" "Camouflage her!" "That's just it! I want her to look like the background she's against here,--and she doesn't!" "I should say not! Last night at dinner she threw herself back in her chair and yawned openly--" "Openly! It was all of that! I saw her,--across the table through the flowers. And, Billee,--she's queer--that's what she is,--queer!" "Have you noticed that, too? Yes, she _is_ queer,--here take this Little Flower. She's nearly asleep." "So she is,--give her to me,--there, there, mudder's pressus,--petty poppity,--yes, she's queer!" "Who? Fleurette?" "You know very well I don't mean Fleurette! I mean that Pride of the West,--that stranger within our gates,--that thorn in the flesh,--that awful Azalea!" "Meaning me?" and Azalea herself popped her head in at the nursery door. "Yes," replied Farnsworth, imperturbably, "meaning you. Come in, Azalea, I want to speak to you. When have you heard from your father?" "Let me see--about a week ago, I think." "Will you show me the letter?" "Why, how inquisitive you are! What do you want to see it for?" "I'd like to read it. I suppose it isn't distinctly a private letter." "N-no, of course not. But, the truth is,--I haven't got it." "What did you do with it?" "I--I tore it up." "Was it unpleasant?" "No, but as I had answered it,--I didn't need to keep it." "What was in it? Tell me,--in a general way." "Oh,--it said--he hoped I was well,--and he--he hoped you were well,--and--" "And he hoped Patty was well! and he hoped the baby was well,--yes,--and after those polite hopes, what else did he say?" "Why,--why, I don't know,--I guess that was about all." "Oh, it was! Why didn't he tell you something about himself? What he was doing,--or going to do?" "I don't know. Papa isn't very much of a letter writer." "Well, he used to be! It was his special forte. I've had letters from him a dozen pages long. I don't believe he's outgrown his bent of letter writing. Now, listen, to this, Azalea, the next letter you get from him, I want you to show it to me, see? If there's anything in it you don't want me to know about, cut that out,--but show me at least the beginning and the ending,--and a part of a page. You hear me?" "Of course I hear you,--not being deaf! And I'll show you the letter,--if I think of it." "You'll think of it,--I'll see to that, myself. You ought to get one soon, oughtn't you?" "No,--I haven't answered his last one yet." "Why, you just said you had!" "Oh, I meant the one before the last--"